


(no such thing as a) lost cause

by jehancourf



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Character(s) of Color, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Pining Enjolras, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Discovery, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehancourf/pseuds/jehancourf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac's new girlfriend has a personality disorder. They're not as rare as Enjolras had assumed.</p><p>(Or, how Enjolras found out about Grantaire's personality disorder.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy BPD Awareness Month! 
> 
> Big thanks to tumblr users alongcameatom, papyruswave, demisexualmettaton and anyone else who dealt with this for the obscene amount of time I spent on it, you guys are the bomb.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I have BPD. This is a fic about BPD. This is also a fic about several other things I don't have/am not. Let me know if anything needs clearing up or if I've done anything horrendously offensive.
> 
> Enjoy!

The first thing that Enjolras notices when he steps into Grantaire’s apartment is that it’s cold. He was sort of expecting a rush of warm air upon opening the door, but instead, he finds the apartment colder than the unheated hallway. His thin red peacoat does not suffice.

“Grantaire?” He calls into the dimly lit space, stepping over a pile of what looks like sheet music pages. The next thing he notices is, of course, the mess. Aside from the papers all over the floor, there’s various art supplies and clothes scattered there too. On the counters and table are remains of easy meals: boxes of microwave pizza, a small pot that once held probably pasta or rice, two empty CapriSun boxes, an ice cream tin, and a couple cans of beans. Enjolras’ eyes follow the clutter across the room and to the short, dark hallway. The television is quiet from here, but it sounds vaguely like cartoons.

He knows Grantaire only lets it get this way when he’s really down. That’s a bad sign.

Enjolras’ voice is met with a groan that he follows down the hallway into the living room, where he finds its owner. Or rather, a pile of blankets shaped like him. He’s laying back on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, with a blanket over every part of his body but his face. For such a large man, it’s sort of impressive that he managed it, but to be fair, there’s a lot of blankets. If Enjolras didn’t know him any better, he’d think the sight was comical, but Enjolras knows Grantaire better than anyone.

He looks embarrassed to have been found like this, which is fairly ridiculous. Enjolras has seen him worse, he thinks, and it’s not like he wouldn’t have come over. As a rule, if Grantaire doesn’t text back after a few hours without a warning or a valid reason, he’s probably having a bad time. (This rule does not apply to anyone but Enjolras, of course. Grantaire is useless at technology as a whole, he had a flip phone until very recently, but with Enjolras, he’s always quick to reply. He works in patterns with him. It’s gotten easy to read.)

Enjolras sits beside him and curls up against his side before he can protest. “What’s up?”

“Chillin’.” Grantaire says after a few beats, trying to joke, but his voice comes out scratchy, like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Enjolras frowns.

“You know I love you, right?” He asks, because sometimes that’s all Grantaire needs. Sometimes he just has to be reminded that he’s important and not worthless and on the planet for a reason. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

Enjolras understands, from Grantaire’s silence that this time is not one of those times.

He looks around the room, in an effort to gauge the situation. Grantaire seems to be the only mess here, having left his food and clothes and hobby supplies in the kitchen or at the door. Like he made a trail on his way inside. There’s not much light coming in from the big window on their right, because the only blanket that Grantaire isn’t using has been made into a makeshift curtain. The only light source is the television, which is, in fact, playing cartoons. His eyes are scanning the floor, though, specifically looking for some remnants of… just to make sure-

“I’m not drunk.” Grantaire says, and it breaks Enjolras’ heart that he doesn’t even sound offended. “Just needed a break, you know?”

Enjolras does.

“Yeah.” He says. “Sorry.” He bites his lip, resting his hand on Grantaire’s leg. (Or, at least, where he imagines his leg must be.) His fingers are pink from the cold. “I want you to believe me. What can I do to convince you?”

Grantaire must hear the desperation in his voice, because he winces. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it is, though!” Enjolras argues without skipping a beat. He’s heard those words countless times, and he’s beginning to believe they aren’t true. “There must be something I’m not doing, or doing wrong, or not doing enough!” Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut, and Enjolras quiets, waiting.

Grantaire pulls his arm out of the blankets after a moment, with a bit of a struggle. Enjolras knows that sleeve, it belongs to one of the shirts he gave him for his birthday. Enjolras finds himself overcome with worry. He’s been trying not to get emotional when it’s a Grantaire problem, because that isn’t what Grantaire needs, but it’s hard not to. Learning how to love someone has its disadvantages. He looks up at Grantaire’s face to find that eyes are sad.

He holds up his hand. Enjolras glances at it, then laces their fingers together. Grantaire’s hand is a lot bigger than his own, and about ten shades darker. The contrast has always pleased Enjolras. He loves and appreciates their differences, and thinks they work better as a couple because of them. Now, though, he feels too small and too pale.

“It’s not your fault.” Grantaire says again. Enjolras wants to protest, but Grantaire looks like he’s still thinking, planning what to say next.

What comes is a bit of a shock, but probably inevitable.

“I think we need to talk.”

—

It’s spring, and Enjolras is a second-semester freshman in college, his campus an oasis in a concrete desert he doesn’t dare know. Monday, during the second of those three weeks of March where winter is still defrosting and the air is too cold in the morning to not wear a jacket, but too warm by the time class ends to carry it around. The earliest leaves are popping out of their buds, and tulips are blooming in window boxes and the medians in the Walmart parking lot and the garden in the quad. Professors have already begun letting kids out a little early when they can, just because they’re happy to see the sun.

Enjolras however, is not outside enjoying the day, despite it being almost sixty degrees out. He sure would like to be, because now is the perfect time to pick a patch of grass to sit on with a cup of hot coffee and study for midterms. Instead, he’s being a good friend and being Courfeyrac’s second in case the girl he met on tinder turns out to be a serial killer or, in Courf’s own words “actually really ugly.”

Enjolras isn’t really sure what kind of serial killer would suggest they meet on the fourth floor of the library, but he finds out about twenty minutes late, when she plops down in front of them with her own second in tow.

“Hi.” She says, her voice quiet, but commanding. “I’m Jehan.”

Courfeyrac is immediately taken to her, but it takes a moment for Enjolras to follow suit. He isn’t sure what’s so attractive about her, to be perfectly honest. She’s got that pastel pink hair that’s in style for every other white girl with internet connection, only very long, and heavy makeup that doesn’t really match. In fact, not much about her matches. Her outfit is made up of many thin layers, all patterned in opposing ways: stripes, plaid, floral, even polka dots, and she keeps switching from topic to topic. Her voice is high, too, and she talks too fast. Enjolras isn’t impressed.

“Oh my gosh!” She exclaims, voice squeaking a little, pulling Enjolras out of his thoughts. “I’m such a bitch, I haven’t even acknowledged you! Are you Enjolras?”

“Yup.” Enjolras replies, meeting her eye. He doesn’t say anything about the bitch comment. Privately, he hopes she gets the hint.

Instead, she only gets excited. “I’ve heard so much about you! You’re starting that social justice voice on campus, right? With Combeferre?”

Enjolras glances at Courfeyrac, who’s grinning eagerly at him. He merely frowns.

“That’s me.” He replies, brow raised. “How do you know Combeferre?”

“He’s in my Gender Studies II.” Jehan explains, grinning. She has lipstick on her teeth. “He’s the only person of color and I’m the only trans girl, so we sort of clicked.”

Enjolras gapes at her for a second, but catches himself. “Hold on, sorry.” He says, feeling himself turn red. “You just pass really well.”

He winces, knowing it’s probably really rude to say, and worse to hear, but he just started testosterone last month and he can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. Or perhaps that’s Courfeyrac elbowing him in the gut. Luckily, she just laughs.

“Gee, thanks.” She says sarcastically, but her eyes are playful.

“Sorry.” Enjolras says, head hanging. “That was really rude. I just started HRT, and I’m a little envious of other trans people.” Jehan nods.

“I get that.” She says solemnly. “It was like that for me at first, too. But I’ve been taking estrogen for almost three years. You’ve got a long way to go, be patient.” She smiles at him, and it’s blinding, and Enjolras sort of gets the attraction now.

“You can count the two of us in on that group, by the way.” Jehan says, and at the acknowledgment, her second finally joins the conversation, putting a tiny sketchbook that Enjolras hadn’t even noticed back into his pocket.

In fact, Enjolras hadn’t noticed him at all, which was his loss, because he’s incredibly attractive. He’s big and black and hairy and Enjolras thinks he might keel over just from looking at him. His hair springs from his head in curls that aren’t quite an afro, but are certainly long enough to be, if given the attention, and he’s got a scruffy beard that frames his face nicely. His skin is dark, not as dark as Combeferre’s or as light as Courfeyrac’s, but a happy medium that Enjolras definitely likes. Most importantly, though, he’s huge. Probably over six feet, so he’s got at least six inches on Enjolras.

“Yeah, right.” He says, and his voice is so deep that Enjolras almost doesn’t catch it’s disdainful tone. Almost. “Count me the fuck out.”

“R!” Jehan scolds, tossing him a glare that Enjolras didn’t think her face was capable of. “This is Grantaire, Enjolras.” She says sheepishly. “He’s punishing me for bringing him along.”

Grantaire grins like he’s in no means sorry, and Enjolras’ breath gets lodged in his throat.

“No, no.” Enjolras says when he comes back to Earth. “I wanna know why he’s so against social justice.”

Both Jehan and Courfeyrac groan. Enjolras shoots his friend a glare, but he’s too busy making goo-goo eyes at Jehan, who is having no problem returning them.

“Well,” Grantaire starts, grinning again at the two of them. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a comically-large silver flask. Courf and Jehan each let out a cry. Enjolras thinks he is missing a joke. “It’s just that social justice and social justice work is inherently flawed.”

Enjolras is dumbfounded that something so ridiculous and blunt could come out of such a pretty mouth. He watches as Grantaire punctuates his statement with a swig from his flask, and is filled with a familiar anger.

“That’s ludicrous.” Enjolras says, glaring at him. “Doesn’t being systematically oppressed bother you?” Grantaire laughs like Enjolras is a child, and he is simultaneously offended and endeared.

“Sure, it bothers me.” He says, eyes sparkling. He leans over the table, head in his hands. He’s still about a foot away, but from here, Enjolras can see that his eyes are deep and brown. He curses himself. “But you can’t possibly be doing any work to help that. You’re a white trans guy, you’re focused on being white and trans.”

“I’ll have you know, that I’m doing quite a bit, or trying to anyway. More work is always needed to be done, and there’s only so much I can do as an ally. I’m learning how to use my privilege to help others.” Enjolras says, chin up. He tries to keep his voice down. “What do you know about being trans?” He demands anyway, angrier by the second, at both this asshole and himself for being attracted to aforementioned asshole, who is just sitting there with his eyebrows raised, like he’s getting a kick out of this.

“Not too much. I’m still learning. But I know a hell of a lot about being black.” Grantaire says. “And I know that doing anything about oppression as a whole is just a waste of time, when guys like me and you are getting gunned down for entirely different reasons.”

Enjolras catches Jehan and Courfeyrac exchanging a glance, as if they’re perhaps regretting introducing them. At least they’re getting along.

“What about intersectionality?” Enjolras growls.

“True intersectionality is impossible, by nature.” Grantaire replies immediately. “Human beings are naturally greedy, and will take whatever power they can get. It’s a lost cause.”

“There’s no such thing as a lost cause.” Enjolras says, and it sounds like a declaration of war. Grantaire apparently has nothing to say to that, sitting back in his seat, but he stares at Enjolras over his flask for the remainder of the afternoon.

—

Enjolras wakes up one Saturday morning to the sound of giggles. Normally, he’d be furious that someone would dare come between him and one of two mornings a week he can sleep in, but the giggles belong to Courfeyrac and Jehan, so curiosity just barely outweighs anger. He rolls over onto his side and squints to check the clock, only to find that it isn’t even eight yet. He rubs his eyes, perhaps still dreaming, but no, his eyes are telling the truth, it really is that early. This strikes him as odd, because Courfeyrac normally isn’t awake until at least ten.

Since their first date, Courfeyrac and Jehan have had quite a few more, all on their own. Enjolras has grown used to seeing the same flushed face try to rationalize staying another night, rather than many different faces. She’s special.

He can’t see Courf clearly from across their room without his glasses, but he is definitely not asleep. In fact, he’s sitting up with his back against the headboard and Jehan in his arms. They’re clothed, thank God, but Enjolras certainly had no warning that she was going to be here. He’s lucky he has pajamas on.

“Did you stay the night?” Enjolras slurs, groggy, startling both of them. Jehan squeaks a little in reaction, but Enjolras is half asleep and doesn’t really feel bad about it.

“Yeah.” She says sheepishly. “Sorry to wake you, I was probably laughing really loudly, huh?” Enjolras nods.

“It’s ok, just shut up.”

Courfeyrac laughs at that, so Jehan joins in. To Enjolras’ blurry mind, it sounds sort of like they’re harmonizing.

“We didn’t get back until like, an hour ago.” Courfeyrac explains between breaths. “We’re delirious.”

“No, we’re drunk.” Jehan corrects him, matter-of-factly. “And annoying. Shut up, baby.” She kisses his cheek. Enjolras groans and shoves his head back under his blankets, trying to ignore them. Unfortunately, their voices seep through.

“Baby, huh?”

Pause.

“You heard me.”

Another pause.

“Alright. That’s cool.”

Enjolras peeks his head back out from underneath the blankets, because there’s something in Courfeyrac’s tone that he’s never heard before. In all the time he’s spent with his roommate, he’s never heard him so soft or so sweet. He’s also never known him to stay with one person so long, to spend so much time with one person, to be so dedicated to one person.

“Are we dating?” Jehan asks, quieter this time, after a long period of uncomfortable silence. “Like, for real?” She sounds almost like she doesn’t believe him, like somehow it’s too good to be true. For her sake, Enjolras hopes it isn’t.

“I don’t know.” Courfeyrac says carefully. Enjolras can hear Jehan suck in a breath. “Do you want to be?”

Jehan doesn’t say anything to that, but Enjolras is watching so intently that he catches her folding in on herself, closing herself off from him. He doesn’t really understand why. Perhaps she’s scared of what he would say to her answer. Perhaps she doesn’t know either. Perhaps Enjolras is too tired to really understand what’s going on.

“We’re drunk.” She mumbles, and Enjolras takes a second to marvel at how different the phrase sounds the second time, like it tastes bad in her mouth.

“In a few hours, we’ll be sober. Can I ask again then?”

Pause.

“Yeah.”

Enjolras pulls the covers over his head and goes back to sleep.

—

The weather is warm now, and everywhere plants of all shapes and sizes have bloomed. Flowers cover every available patch of soil: from pretty pastel daisies, to pink and purple pansies, to dandelions and clovers in the grass. With them comes the gardeners, a bunch of friendly guys who turn up at convenient times to ask if kids want to buy drugs. One of them happens to be Jehan’s most recent ex-boyfriend, which would be a problem if Jehan and Courfeyrac weren’t already so deeply in love. They’ve only been dating, for real, for two months, but it makes sense, because everyone is a little bit in love with Jehan. Even Enjolras.

She’s assimilated easily into Courfeyrac’s friend group, fitting so neatly that it’s like she’s always been there. She teaches Eponine and Bahorel where to get the best thrifted clothing, she teaches Joly and Bossuet about herbal remedies and spells, she teaches Combeferre to speak more poetically. She even teaches Enjolras a thing or two about the trans stuff they don’t tell you at the clinic, like which workplaces are the most accepting and which subway station bathrooms to avoid. Courfeyrac had seemed nervous at first about introducing her as his girlfriend, for a number of reasons, but Enjolras hadn’t been worried. Anyone that Courfeyrac loves, the rest of them will love, too.

Jehan started attending club meetings the afternoon after she said she would, and with her, to Enjolras’ surprise and delight, came Grantaire.

“Told you I’d convince him.” Jehan had told him as she walked into the club room, which is just the student lounge for now. They’re working on it.

Grantaire had grinned at Enjolras, and his heart flip-flopped.

“Needed more white friends.” Was all he said, earning a groan from one of the two total white people in the room.

“Yeah, ok, R.” She had said, smacking his arm, and turned to Enjolras to wink at him. “I think he missed you.”

Enjolras had more than missed him at the time, but now the longing has faded into mild annoyance. Grantaire is a thorn in his side at best, and probably his arch nemesis realistically. He argues every single point that Enjolras makes, from the concept of monosexual privilege to the quality of food at Olive Garden, and often leaves him feeling frustrated and upset. Anyone else would easily break against Enjolras’ fiery speeches, but not Grantaire. He just waits for him to finish, grinning the entire time, and starts on a rant of his own. He seems to know at least something about everything, and has an opinion to boot. It’s infuriating, not only because he can rant for thirty minutes about the expiration rate of whole milk, but also because Enjolras is somehow still attracted to him.

He doesn’t want to be, really. Grantaire is such a douchebag. His problem is that he only seems to be a douchebag to Enjolras. He, like Jehan, fit right into their group of friends and was loved almost instantly by everyone. He has friends in other places, too, often waiting for him to get out of meetings. He really is likable, charming and kind, but it’s more than that. Enjolras sees the way he talks to people, really listening no matter how silly the conversation may seem, and believes that Grantaire has a kindness that runs deep through his soul.

Except for with him.

“Don’t think too hard, Enjolras, you’ll make yourself sick,” comes a familiar baritone to pull him out of his thoughts. Enjolras turns to find Grantaire sitting next to him, little sketchbook in hand.

“Why are you here?” Enjolras asks, because he’s finally taking advantage of the sun, basking on a blanket with a bag of veggie chips and his history book, and he doesn’t need any interruptions, however welcome they may be.

“Because you’re the only person on the quad not wearing headphones.” Grantaire says, unfazed. “And I needed something to draw.”

“Oh.” Says Enjolras eloquently. He isn’t sure whether to feel flattered or annoyed. “You don’t have to do that.” Grantaire just laughs.

“Actually, I do.” He taps his sketchbook. “Figure studies.”

“Oh.” Enjolras says again, cursing himself. Maybe the reason they never have conversations is because his anxious ass can’t hold them with him. He didn’t even know Grantaire was an art major. “I didn’t know you were an art major.”

“Yup.” He says, eyes on his sketchbook. “That’s how me and Jehan met.”

“Jehan’s an art major?”

“Jesus, you really are oblivious, aren’t you?” Grantaire looks up at Enjolras, and there’s that laugh again. He feels his face heat up.

“I’m not very good at… people.” He mumbles, growing more embarrassed by the second. He can feel his anxiety waking up in his chest, and he takes a long breath to quiet it, hopefully silently. Grantaire watches him with interest.

“Yeah?” His voice isn’t teasing anymore, more gentle. “Me neither.”

Enjolras crosses his arms. “That’s not true, everybody loves you. You’re great at conversation, and you’re very charming.” Grantaire raises a brow at him.

“That’s different.” He says, and it’s almost like they’re arguing again. “It doesn’t take any effort to be charming. Charming is just glamorous lying.” He pauses, thinking. “And anyway, you don’t.”

“I don’t what?”

“Love me.”

Enjolras reels, heart momentarily forgetting its purpose. He can’t stop his anxiety from breaking down the door this time, and his head is screaming at him, banging on the walls of his skull with a shaky hammer. Fight or flight instincts run out of gas on their way to his hands, so he’s stuck there staring at Grantaire like a deer in headlights. It must be visible on his face, because Grantaire continues.

“Come on.” He says, rolling his eyes. “You think I’m annoying.”

Enjolras takes a second to breathe again, letting himself settle. Right, love is a word that covers many relations, and came out of his own mouth just seconds before. Not everything has to be an emotional investment.

“No, I don’t.” He says, words spilling from his mouth as his brain catches up with the conversation. Grantaire laughs, either not noticing Enjolras’ previous panic or being polite enough not to mention it. Either way, he salutes him.

“Yes you do.” He deadpans, like it’s not debatable. “And I don’t blame you, I am.”

He doesn’t sound sad about it, but it still sparks something in Enjolras’ throat that he doesn’t like.

“Well, I disagree.” He says, haughtily, and again, Grantaire just laughs. He tears the page from his little sketchbook and hands it to Enjolras face down.

“As usual, Enjolras, you’re wrong.” He replies, and just like that he’s gone.

Enjolras watches him go, thoughts floating quickly and violently around his head. It’s only after he’s disappeared from sight that he flips the paper over. On the back is a beautiful pencil sketch of half of his body. It’s mostly gestural, capturing lines and forms rather than detail, but Enjolras can see clearly the lines of his face. Despite its simplicity, it’s accurate and beautiful, and in the corner where Enjolras’ left hand should be is Grantaire’s phone number.

—

When Courfeyrac and Jehan have their first fight, everyone knows about it. That is to say, everyone knows they’re fighting. No one knows what it’s about. Including Courfeyrac. Which is why, at two in the morning, Combeferre is sitting with them on the floor of their room with a coffee in hand trying to help them figure it out.

“It just doesn’t make any sense!” He cries into his hands for about the fiftieth time.

To be fair, it doesn’t really make any sense to Enjolras either. Maybe it’s him being oblivious again, but Courfeyrac has done seemingly nothing to upset her. In fact, he sounds like the perfect boyfriend. He spends every second of his free time with Jehan, doing homework together or spending time in the sun or making out in inconvenient places. They’re practically inseparable, and when they do have to be away from each other, they’re texting, nonstop. She can’t get enough of him, and he can’t get enough of her either.

Maybe they’re seeing each other too much.

“She said she hated me.” Courfeyrac sobs. Combeferre glances at Enjolras, looking as tired as Enjolras feels, and puts down his coffee to pat his shoulder.

“I know.” He says, solemn. “And she didn’t say why.”

“Just that I don’t love her. But that’s not true!” Courfeyrac finally looks up from his hands, from Enjolras to Combeferre and back. “I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone, you guys. I want to marry her!”

Enjolras bites his lip to keep from saying something rude. Instead, he continues the story. “And you didn’t tell her that?”

“No.” He mumbles. “Because I am an idiot.”

“Call her.” Suggests Combeferre.

“I have.” Courf replies.

“Several times.” Enjolras adds. Combeferre pauses to think, which is kind of interesting to watch, because he has a very obvious thinking face. His nose screws up and his brows furrow. Enjolras first noticed it when they were discussing Nigerian politics, which he had known nothing about at the time but left the conversation knowing way, way too much.

“Try again. Right now.”

“What? Really?”

“Yep. I want to see what happens.”

There’s really no arguing with that, so Courfeyrac takes out his phone. Her face is both his background and lock screen. He calls her, putting her on speaker so they can all hear. The phone rings once, twice, three times and then-

“Hey.”

Courfeyrac almost drops his phone.

“Jehan? Babe, is that you? Holy shit, I’ve been trying to reach you for-“

“Yeah, I know. I’m not mad at you anymore.” Jehan interrupts. Her voice sounds strained, like she’s been crying, or screaming, since she hung up with Courf two hours ago. She’s not full of anger anymore, in fact, she doesn’t seem to be full of anything. She just sounds tired. Enjolras looks over at Courfeyrac, and he looks like a bittersweet combination of relieved and confused.

“You don’t hate me?”

“What?”

“You said you hated me.” Courfeyrac, for once in his life, sounds incredibly small.

“Oh.” Jehan says, matching his tone. “We should probably talk. About this. Me.”

“Ok.” Courfeyrac says. He hasn’t looked at Enjolras or Combeferre. Enjolras wonders if he’s all there.

“I’m sorry.” Jehan says for the first time all night, and there is a collective sigh of relief around the room. “I know it’s late, but can you come over?”

“Yeah.” Courfeyrac says, immediately standing up and jostling Enjolras, Combeferre and his coffee. He grabs his coat, because Jehan’s apartment is a bit of a walk, and stumbles to put on his shoes. Despite their obvious worry, Enjolras and Combeferre stay silent, only sharing an occasional glance. “I’m on my way.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

After a beat, Enjolras’ phone buzzes. It’s a text from Grantaire, which isn’t too surprising. Despite disagreeing on literally everything, they text fairly often now, even if it’s just Grantaire sending Enjolras a weird meme. Grantaire seems to like him a lot more when he doesn’t have to look at him. What’s surprising is the content, a link to a very long article titled “Living With a Person with Borderline Personality Disorder, By a Person with Borderline Personality Disorder.” At first, he’s confused, but as he skims the article, it starts to make sense. He receives a second text moments later.

It simply says: ‘read up buttercup ur in 4 some shit.’

——

> **What is Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD)?**
> 
> Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD, is a common Cluster B personality disorder characterized by instability in moods, behavior, and relationships. Unlike other mental health problems, personality disorders aren’t a chemical imbalance in our brains or anything any pill would be able to help or cure. They’re just the way we are.
> 
> We can, of course, be helped. Many people with BPD seek therapy of some kind. Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) is often implemented, as it was first invented in 1980 to treat BPD.
> 
> Symptoms include emotional instability, feelings of worthlessness, insecurity, impulsivity, and impaired social relationships, but in order to truly understand people with BPD, you must both a. Look inside our heads and b. Be more specific.
> 
> Symptoms I, as a person with BPD experience include, but are not limited to:
> 
>   * Anger
>   * Depression
>   * Suicide Ideation
>   * Fear of Abandonment
>   * Violent Mood Swings
>   * Dependent Tendencies
>   * Addictive Tendencies
>   * Lack of Identity
>   * Lack of Impulse Control
>   * Disassociation
>   * Black and White Thinking
>   * Split Thinking
> 


____

Enjolras is getting tired of being woken up in the middle of the night.

Courfeyrac and Jehan never actually have sex in the room when they know Enjolras is there, but often times he’ll wake up to the sound of kisses and sweet nothings and find them tangled up together, fully clothed. Or they simply won’t see him there, distracted by each other, and he’ll have to verbally stop them before it gets that far or just wait it out. Either way, it’s annoying, and it’s coming between him and a good night’s sleep.

Enjolras had thought he would be safe after Courfeyrac left to talk to her. He had figured at least he would have spent the rest of the night with her, considering he left three hours before dawn, and not come barreling through the door as the sun peeks over the horizon with his hands up her shirt. No such luck.

“Tell me again, darling!”

“I love you!”

“Again!”

“I love you!”

It takes Enjolras a few minutes to understand what’s going on, but when he does, Courfeyrac has told Jehan that he loves her at least five more times. Luckily, he fell asleep the minute he hit the bed, so he still has pants and a shirt on, and he sits up, furious.

“No!” He exclaims, voice coming out groggy. Jehan immediately detaches herself from where she had pressed Courfeyrac down onto his bed. She already has an angry red mark on her neck, and she looks absolutely mortified. “I’m glad you made up, but for Christ’s sake!”

“Enjolras, sweetheart I’m s-“

“Sorry, I know.” Enjolras cuts her off, sliding off his bed. He sighs, trying to calm himself, and slips his feet into his shoes. “I’m going for a fucking walk. Keep your bodily fluids on your side of the room.” Courfeyrac looks like he’s about to protest, but Enjolras is out the door before he can.

It’s not until he’s all the way down three flights of stairs, past the security guard and out into the night that he realizes he has no idea what he’s doing.

The night is quiet while he walks along the path that winds around campus. The sounds and lights of the city are far off from here, making the outside world seem distant and unreal. Instead of car horns and yelling voices, Enjolras hears cricket songs and his own feet crunching in the gravel below him. The only lights to obscure the dawn are on campus, pointing out doors, left on in windows, or lighting his way as he walks. He doesn’t usually take walks during the night, and he’s always loved the peacefulness here, but he finds himself wishing for company.

As if on cue, his phone vibrates in his back pocket. He hadn’t even known it was there.

“Hello?”

“Hey, man.” Grantaire’s familiar voice sounds a little rougher over the phone, perhaps due to the hour, and it fills Enjolras with a warmness that the early morning chill can’t keep out. “Did my best friend and her boyfriend sexile you?”

Enjolras giggles, in spite of himself. “Sorta.” He says, sitting down in a patch of dewy grass. He’s too tired to be upset about the wetness. “It’s more like I stormed out on them.”

“Nice.”

“It’s like, five in the morning, and I only just went to sleep.” Enjolras protests, smiling to himself. A thought pops into his head, and his smile is washed away. “It’s five in the morning, why are you calling me?”

“Thought you might want some company.”

Enjolras’ heart fills up with mush, and maybe he’s still dreaming, because he can’t seem to keep himself from giggling again.

“Yeah, ok.” He says, and before he can actually make any plans with Grantaire, he hears the line click, and then a loud wolf whistle from behind him. He turns around to see Grantaire waving at him from across the quad, cigarette in his other hand. He stands up, shaking his head, and wipes the dew off his bum to go join him.

“Were you just out having a smoke at five am?” Enjolras asks once he’s made it to his side.

“Yup.” Grantaire replies, grinning at him. In the early morning light, his tired eyes look almost dreamlike. “Courfeyrac and Jehan were having a talk. I guess we can go back now, since they’re at your place.”

“Why did they move?”

“We have some very disruptive pets.” Grantaire explains. “That’s why we live off campus.”

“You live off campus?”

Grantaire laughs at that, silencing a few nearby crickets. “Yeah, Enjolras. It’s not too far.” He says, nodding his head toward the street. Enjolras examines it for a moment, noticing a few cars already on their way about their days. He ought to be starting his day soon too, and he really ought to be catching up on sleep. He’s never skipped a class in his life, even when he was sick, but something about the outside world pulls at him, and when Grantaire leads the way down the path and out past the campus walls, he finds himself going willingly.

They walk in silence for a few moments, Enjolras’ eyes wandering around the city, before Grantaire speaks again.

“Do you smoke?” He asks, reaching into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

“Oh, no.” Enjolras says quickly. “I don’t smoke.”

“That explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Enjolras says, a little offended.

“Your voice.” Grantaire says, looking down at him, amused. “It’s very clear.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to do with that, but finds himself flattered anyway, turning to stare at his feet. The following silence is less peaceful and more awkward.

“Thanks.” He says after far too long, eyes still on the ground. Grantaire brushes his hand against Enjolras’ arm, and Enjolras takes a second to appreciate the size comparison, sure his face is red as the early morning sun.

“Don’t mention it.” Grantaire replies, leading them on into the daytime. He pauses. “And if you wanna just crash when we get to my place, that’s cool too. The dogs should be asleep.”

“Really?” He asks, almost sobbing with relief. “That’s so nice, Grantaire, are you sure?” In his excitement he almost forgets: “Wait, dogs?”

“Two bull mastiffs. They’re Jehan’s. She says they’re therapy animals, but she’s totally lying.”

Enjolras’ jaw drops. “Grantaire, those are big dogs.”

“Yep.” Grantaire replies, amused. “Are you afraid of dogs? I can lock ‘em in the bathroom or something.”

“Oh my God, no!” Enjolras exclaims, appalled. “Are you serious?”

“Of course not.” Grantaire grins and takes another drag of his cigarette. “I was sorta banking on you saying no.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m saying no. They’re just big.” Grantaire doesn’t respond, just keeps on smiling, and turns them onto a little side street. It’s not quite a dark alley, but it’s not the easiest place to be either. The sun hasn’t reached it yet, and it’s mostly dark, but Enjolras can see ivy vines crawling up the brick walls, waiting expectantly. Cars are packed tight on either side of the narrow road, leaving hardly any room to use it for its intended purpose. Enjolras sees out of the corner of his eye what is either a cat or a very large squirrel dart across the street. He stays close to Grantaire’s side, admittedly a little wary of the environment.

Grantaire leads him to what looks like the back door of a small apartment building and unlocks it, holding the door open. Enjolras steps inside and looks around. Everything is dingy, like an old hotel, and a dreadful shade of green. There are tears in the wallpaper and stains on the carpet. There are mailboxes at the far end of the hall, where the entrance seems to be, and a spiral staircase directly to his left. His distaste must be apparent on his face, because Grantaire leans in close from behind him and says: “It was the only place within our budget that allowed for pets.”

He circles him, then, heading up the stairs, and it takes Enjolras a moment to follow, watching Grantaire as he again leads the way. The second they reach the top floor, they’re greeted by the sound of dog feet hitting hardwood. Enjolras laughs.

“So much for ‘the dogs should be asleep’.” He says, grinning.

“Big words for someone who’s about to be trampled.” Grantaire replies, smirking back at him. “I’ll protect you, though, for real. They’re harmless, I just don’t want you to fall and break your butt.”

Enjolras can’t stop giggling long enough to say anything, and Grantaire seems to take that as the ok, because he takes his keys out of his pocket. From behind the door labelled “Jehan and Grantaire’s Butterfly Garden/Opium Den,” he can hear the dogs jumping and breathing heavily. He’s pretty sure that means either excitement on their part or certain death on his. He isn’t scared. Just nervous. Finally, he nods, and Grantaire opens the door. The dogs immediately jump up to greet him, but when they notice Enjolras, they go absolutely bonkers, nearly knocking Grantaire off his feet.

“Shut the door behind you!” He says, loudly to be heard over the slobber. Enjolras does, grinning ear to ear, and reaches over Grantaire’s arms to pet the dogs’ massive heads. They’re very soft, with short fur that Enjolras definitely likes. Despite their rowdiness, he is surprised to immediately find the feeling of petting them relaxing. He doesn’t get to touch fur very often.

“I’m gonna let them go. You ok?” Grantaire asks, leaning down to give the beasts a proper greeting. They lick all over his face, clearly happy to have him home. Enjolras’ cheeks begin to hurt from how hard he is smiling.

“Yes.” He says quickly “I love them.” Grantaire laughs, and lets the dogs go.

They don’t jump on him as hard, perhaps sensing that he isn’t as strong as Grantaire, and instead circle him, licking his hands. He crouches down, and they lick his face, taking to him immediately. He is bursting with giggles, and is quickly pushed back onto the floor with their big heads. They waste no time investigating him, and instead go straight for his face, kissing it and hitting it with their big, wet noses. He tries to get his head away from the slobber to no avail: they’re too strong. It’s gross, but he doesn’t mind too much. For once, he doesn’t have a care in the world, and only knows the feeling of being loved by big dogs, the smell of their fur, and the sound of Grantaire’s laugh.

“Alright, alright.” Grantaire says after a moment of indulgence, shooing them away. “Leave Enjolras alone, he’s small and defenseless.”

Enjolras doesn’t have it in his heart to be angry with him.

The dogs scurry away to their beds in the corner of the room, pressed up against the walls, which have a floral wallpaper even more hideous than the walls downstairs. There’s a little couch beside them facing a very sad looking television, and an open kitchen area to the left. To the right, there are two other rooms, which Enjolras guesses are a bathroom and a bedroom. All in all, it’s pretty impressive for two art students.

He gets up, looking up at Grantaire, and doesn’t know what to say. He’s happy, and carefree, and any thought of starting his day has been replaced by the sudden comfort of being here. Grantaire smiles at him, and all hope is lost. He blurts: “Do you wanna snuggle?”

Enjolras widens his eyes at his own traitor mouth, blushing furiously and looking back down at his feet. He’s about to apologize, but Grantaire just laughs.

“Yeah, totally.” He says, tossing his cigarette butt in the trash by the door. “Bed or couch? It’s a pull-out.”

“Bed.”

Grantaire shucks off his shoes and his sweatshirt, and Enjolras looks up to find that he’s still smiling at him. He’s still very embarrassed, but he’s also excited. He wasn’t an active snuggler in high school, and snuggling Grantaire sounds like a dream come true. He follows Grantaire into the bedroom, where he finds two twin sized beds, a pink-covered one on the right that is surrounded by plants, clearly Jehan’s, and a very plain one with cardboard boxes underneath it on the left.

“Are we gonna fit?” Asks Enjolras incredulously, looking Grantaire up and down. He’s a big guy, and the beds are small enough as it is for just him.

“Yeah, man.” He replies, brushing his hand against Enjolras’ elbow. “We just have to cuddle mad close.”

“Oh. Ok.”

Grantaire clambers into the bed, pulling the covers up over him and laying on his side. Enjolras follows, back to him, scooting up close so that he doesn’t fall off. Grantaire’s arms wind around his waist, and Enjolras can feel his breath on his neck.

“It’s ok.” Grantaire says. Enjolras must have been tense. “I won’t do anything gross. And if you want, we can switch positions.” Enjolras lets out a little breath.

“No, this is good.” He says. “I’m just not much of a cuddler.” Grantaire gives him a squeeze.

“I can teach you, if you want.”

Enjolras gasps, and covers it up with a yawn.

“Maybe another time, though.” Grantaire continues, and his smile is nearly audible. “For now, go to sleep.”

Enjolras sort of wishes he could stay awake to enjoy the feeling of Grantaire holding him, but he is so comfortable. The arms around him are big and warm, and his shirt is riding up just enough that he can feel the press of skin against skin. He blinks, and his eyelids feel too heavy. Briefly, he thinks they ought to try this again, when he’s able to feel it more. The sun has just made its way over the horizon, tucking the moon into bed to sleep, and as she goes, so does he.

—

Enjolras has never given much thought to sexuality.

It’s not that he’s ignoring anything. As a person under the queer umbrella, he’s sort of required to think about sexual preference alongside gender identity. He knows he’s a trans man, and he knows he loves men romantically. That being said, romantic preference and sexual preference are two very different things, and as for his sexual preference, up until now, he’s always chosen not to think about it.

It’s easier to say he’s asexual than to give it the thought it deserves. If Enjolras is being honest, he usually is. He doesn’t need sexual activity to feel fulfilled, and he certainly doesn’t feel a surge of hormones any time he sees a man’s naval. He’s never had the time nor the desire to have sex, and feels comfortable enough on his own to label himself asexual. In high school, he was more focused on being a student than a teenager, and his mind was on studying, being a closeted trans person, and of course, the world’s injustices. He didn’t have time to seek a relationship, sexual or otherwise. Now, he’s not entirely against sex as a whole, it’s just not at the top of his list. It’s not even at the top ten.

It’s easier to say he’s asexual than to address his current situation, that is, to acknowledge his not-entirely-innocent feelings for Grantaire.

Enjolras would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t at least attracted to him at all, without trying to categorize it. He was drawn to him from the start, despite being frustrated and annoyed at his attitude. Grantaire is everything he doesn’t like about a person, while simultaneously being the most attractive person he has ever had the good fortune of meeting.

He hasn’t given it thought, hasn’t tried to place it, hasn’t wanted to, but now, sitting cross legged on his bed in his empty room, he has a reason.

Enjolras looks down at his boxer briefs. A peace treaty from his less than accepting mother, they are soft and comfortable and help with dysphoria. They give him an excuse not to worry about his genitalia. He likes how they feel on his skin, and he likes wearing them. Now, though, he would rather have them off.

He slides them down past his knees and spreads his legs. He can’t stretch very far with them still on, so he decides to forgo them entirely. Then, he looks down at his body. It’s trim and small, with wide hips and thighs. He’s started to grow hair on his legs, arms, and belly, thicker and longer than it used to be, but still light. Enjolras is not a natural blond, his hair is a mousy brown, but it’s still too light to be convincingly masculine. It does get darker, though, as it gets closer to his pubic area, and he likes that.

He isn’t binding, and his breasts sit small and perky on his chest. They’re pale, with little pink nipples. If they weren’t his own, Enjolras might say they were cute. He wants hands on them, so he cups them experimentally, then chances a flick at his left nipple. He twists it between his fingers and tugs at its soft skin, then does the same for the other, gasping as his fingers get less careful, until both of his nipples are red, erect, and a little sore.

Enjolras decides he really likes teasing his breasts, and lets his mind wander. If it were Grantaire teasing them instead, his hands would be much bigger, and perhaps rougher. Would his touch be rougher, too, with the intention of causing pleasant pain? Better yet, would Grantaire use his teeth? Enjolras closes his eyes and digs his nails into his skin. It’s not enough. He imagines Grantaire’s perfect lips on his neck, his collar, his breast, his nipples. He imagines Grantaire biting him. Leaving hickeys.

His hips buck up of their own volition, and he gasps. Grantaire is probably good with his mouth. He’s probably good with those big hands, too, and Enjolras can easily picture Grantaire touching him with them. Warm and solid, directing him.

Enjolras opens his eyes, breath heavy, and glances down at his pussy. He can feel that he’s wet, but he’s nervous to touch. His clitoris has expanded since he’s started taking testosterone shots, and it doesn’t look so much like a cute little pussy anymore.

What would Grantaire think?

Enjolras shakes his head. Grantaire would love to fuck him. His legs are spread wide for him, and he’s so wet, vulnerable and needy, all for him. Enjolras finally moves a hand to his clitoris, rubbing himself with three rough fingers. Grantaire would do the same, he thinks, but he’d be grinning at him while he does. Would he taunt him, like in an argument? Telling him how pathetic he looks, desperate for it? Or, almost better yet, would he tell Enjolras that he looks beautiful like this, all his?

A moan escapes his lips, and he tosses his head. He feels so good, and so dirty, touching himself and thinking about his friend. What would Grantaire think of that? What would Grantaire think if he knew that right now, Enjolras is pressing two fingers in his pussy, imagining they were just one of his?

Enjolras bucks his hips up so that he can take their full length. It’s not nearly enough to satisfy him, but he can twist them, curl them, and scissor them to stretch himself more. Before long, he’s a dripping mess, shaking the bed as he thrusts his hips and whining to himself. He can feel himself getting close, and he feels desperate to come. He thinks about Grantaire’s cock, and imagines that it’s huge. Far too big to fit without lube, and even then, it fills him completely. He presses in another finger. Grantaire would fuck him hard. He wouldn’t be gentle, he’d just take and take, and use Enjolras’ body like a toy.

When he imagines Grantaire coming all over him, he tears his fingers out and squirts onto the bed. His head tosses back and forth, and his hips buck erratically as his orgasm overcomes him. He is loud, maybe too loud, but he couldn’t be bothered. It feels amazing, and he rides it for several fantastic minutes.

Enjolras opens his eyes, content, smiling and satisfied, and oversees the damage. He’s covered in sweat, and his breath is heavy. He made a mess of himself. He’ll have to clean his sheets later, but it’s not too bad. He didn’t even know he could do that. Maybe he’s gone too long untouched.

Enjolras giggles and pulls his blanket up over himself, snuggling against his pillows. He pulls out his phone and texts Grantaire.

__

“Grantaire, love, can you pass me that?”

Enjolras again wakes to the sound of Jehan’s voice. For someone so quiet, she sure does have a knack for interrupting his REM cycles. This time, though, he’s not in his own bed. It’s the first of May, and Enjolras is celebrating with quite a few of his closest friends. That is to say, he was forcibly removed from studying for finals and driven to Grantaire and Jehan’s Butterfly Garden/Opium Den, where he immediately fell asleep on the pull out couch, with a few of his closest friends.

“Yeah, but be quiet, Enjolras is still asleep.”

“Are you smoking?” He asks groggily, earning him a few laughs.

“No he’s not! I’ll be as loud as I want, thank you very much.” Enjolras opens his eyes just in time to see Jehan lean from the other side of the couch to snatch a pretty glass bowl from Grantaire’s hand. He watches her put it daintily in her mouth and light it with her own (sparkly, pink) lighter. Then she closes her eyes and takes a long puff, and Enjolras finds himself confused by how it must work. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks as she leans back against Courfeyrac and blows perfectly round circles of smoke into the air. It’s pretty impressive, and even Combeferre joins in on the resounding laughter and applause with a little golf clap of his own.

Enjolras, however, is more interested in what’s going on on his side of the couch. Apparently, he rolled over in his sleep, and has found himself with his legs sprawled out and his head in Grantaire’s lap. He’s not worried about taking up too much space, because he’s very small, and he’s not worried about cuddling with Grantaire, because that’s sort of become a thing that they do now. He’s more worried about being in such close proximity of Grantaire’s belt. It’s an interesting worry to wake up to, considering how often he’s been touching himself lately. He hasn’t squirted since the first time, but every time he’s thought about being fucked by Grantaire. Enjolras turns red and wills himself not to get lost in his thoughts.

“Yeah, we’re smoking, man.” Grantaire says, running a gentle hand through Enjolras’ hair. He glances up to find Grantaire smiling dreamily at him and has to stop himself from making a very embarrassing noise. “Want a hit?”

Enjolras sits up, still hazy with sleep, and looks briefly around the room before turning back to Grantaire. “You know I don’t smoke.” Grantaire shrugs.

“Alright.” He replies easily, not bothered. Enjolras holds his gaze, wondering if he’s high. His eyes are sort of red, but Enjolras has never really seen anyone high before, so he isn’t really sure what to look for. He’s also never been high himself.

Nobody seems to be paying attention to him anymore. Jehan and Courfeyrac are distracted by each other; Combeferre is chatting with Joly and Bossuet, who are full of giggles; Feuilly, looking more relaxed than Enjolras has ever seen him, is doodling a picture of a sleeping Bahorel; and Eponine, with her feet up on the coffee table, is lamenting about tuition costs to a nodding Musichetta. He doesn’t have anyone to impress. If he chooses to try a hit, the only person who would even notice is Grantaire, and he doesn’t seem to care either way. He just stares back at him.

“What?” Enjolras asks, eyes flickering back up to meet his. Grantaire just smiles again.

“Nothing.” He says. “You’re just really transparent. It’s cute.” He pauses, giving Enjolras just enough time to short circuit. “You don’t have to try just because we are, especially if you don’t want to. I mean, it would probably be good for you to take a break for once, but ultimately it’s up to you.”

Enjolras thinks about it for a moment. He had never seen himself as someone who would smoke weed, but then again, he had always been the sort of person to stay at home reading a book rather than spending time with friends. While he still enjoys that sort of solitude, he’s finding himself enjoying being around people, too. He knows his friends won’t like him any less if he decides not to, but there’s not really a negative side to trying it either. Worst case scenario, he just won’t like it, and he never has to do it again.

“I think I’d like to, actually.” He decides, quiet enough that only Grantaire can hear him.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire grins, and it’s brilliant. Enjolras likes his crooked teeth and his wide, plump lips. He wonders if his face is still red, but he suspects it probably is. He also wonders if Grantaire might like to kiss him while he’s high, but the thought is interrupted almost immediately.

“Yo, Feuilly, pass that over here, Mother Theresa decided to join the sinners!” Grantaire booms, bringing the attention back to Enjolras. He groans, hiding his face.

Feuilly, unlike the rest of the crowd, is merciful and doesn’t tease him as he passes him the bowl. Instead, he just smiles and pats his back knowingly. The bowl is heavier than it looks, and Enjolras is confused by it.

“Don’t misgender him, Grantaire!” Jehan jokes from across the room. “He’s clearly Gandhi.”

“Since when is Gandhi a white man?”

“Since I decided to smoke.” Enjolras deadpans. Grantaire hands him his lighter, and Enjolras holds it in his hand, unmoving.

“How do I use this thing?” He mumbles. Grantaire laughs.

“Put the end up to your mouth, light it, then cover the little hole on the side and take a breath.”

Enjolras goes over the directions in his head, then nods. He puts the small end against his lips and sparks up the lighter, holding it underneath the bowl. It doesn’t light. He tries again, focusing on the weed this time, but still nothing. He lets out a frustrated noise and takes it away from his mouth to look at it. He feels Grantaire watching him, and only grows more embarrassed, feeling his anxiety curl up in the pit of his stomach.

“Let me.” Grantaire says, and his voice is more comforting than teasing this time. Enjolras is grateful. He hands him the lighter and puts the bowl back to his mouth.

“Like this, see?” He lights it up quickly, but Enjolras doesn’t catch what he did to make it so easy. His hand is radiating warmth. “Now put your finger over the hole and breathe.”

Enjolras does as he’s told, closing his eyes. His breath is deep and long, and he can feel the smoke settle strangely in his windpipe. When he breathes out, he immediately has a coughing fit and feels like an idiot, but no one is laughing at him.

“There you go.” Grantaire says. Enjolras is almost offended that he isn’t teasing him, for once. “Have another. Jehan won’t mind.”

Enjolras is admittedly a little wary of Jehan. Since their last fight, she and Courfeyrac seem to have only gotten closer, and have thus only had more fights. They never really fight in person, but her mood swings are constant and unpredictable. She’ll make a mess and he’ll have to clean it up with calm, gentle words over the phone. It’s like she can’t look him in the eye when she’s angry, like she really is just that shy.

It’s not his problem, though, Enjolras decides, so he takes another hit.

Enjolras passes the bowl and the lighter to Joly, who leans over his pouting boyfriend to take it. He lights it with ease, leaving Enjolras to wonder how long he’s been the only friend who hasn’t smoked. He sits back against the couch, nestling into the cushions. He doesn’t feel much different yet, just sleepy, and he’s a little disappointed. Not that he would know what he’s going to feel. He looks up at Grantaire to find that he’s still staring.

“Want to cuddle?” He asks. Enjolras has gotten better at being assertive with his affection, because Grantaire is never the one to ask for it. He hopes he’s just shy about it, but he understands if Grantaire isn’t really into cuddling. Grantaire reeks of masculinity, and cuddling with your friends isn’t exactly traditional. He does really like cuddling with him, though. He’s so big and warm, and sometimes if Enjolras focuses hard enough he can hear his heartbeat.

He grins and opens his arms and Enjolras climbs into his lap, tucking his head under Grantaire’s chin. He feels small, but it’s not a bad feeling. He feels safe.

“How you feeling?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras feels his adam’s apple move with his words. He shivers and ignores the impulse to bite it.

“Like I’m falling asleep.” Enjolras replies, nosing him instead. “Is this just gonna make me fall asleep?”

Grantaire laughs, and that makes Enjolras laugh too, and then they’re laughing together, faces far too close. Enjolras can feel his breath.

“It might.” He slows his laughter to speak. “Probably not. You’ll probably just feel like you’re dreaming.”

“That’s lovely.”

Grantaire lets out a quick breath in amusement and wraps his arms around him, giving him a squeeze. Enjolras thinks he already does feel like he’s dreaming, and he curses himself for being such a sap. Grantaire is so, so warm.

“You’re lovely.” He continues. He thinks his filter is flaking. Grantaire just laughs.

“Ok, Enjolras.” He says. “Just because you’re Gandhi now doesn’t mean you have to give to the poor.”

Enjolras frowns, pulling back with a little difficulty. Grantaire is, of course, smiling.

“I absolutely hate when you do that, you know.” He tells him.

“Do what?”

“Ignore a compliment. Or laugh one off.” Enjolras says seriously. “It’s infuriating. Why should I tell you I think you’re lovely if I don’t really mean it?” Grantaire blinks at him, then smiles again. This time, it seems sort of like a mask.

“Come on, what about this face says lovely to you?” He sticks his tongue out and stretches his lips as far as they can go. Enjolras doesn’t laugh.

“I don’t need an explanation. I think you’re lovely, and that’s that.” He replies, matter-of-factly, and lays his head back down. Grantaire is silent for several moments, and Enjolras thinks he may have gone too far, but then he feels thick fingers lace between his. The contrast in both size and color is staggering, and he smiles.

They sit in silence until the bowl is passed back to Grantaire, who seems disappointed to loosen his grip. He hardly takes any for himself, and hands it off to Enjolras happily. He again lights it for him, and Enjolras breathes in a generous gulp. When he breathes out, he coughs hard and laughs. Grantaire watches him. Enjolras can’t help himself.

“Hey, R?” He starts, using the nickname he’s heard others use. He feels giddy and fuzzy, and when Grantaire smiles at him, his heart jumps.

“What, Gandhi?”

Enjolras giggles. “No, hang on, don’t call me that right now.” He meets Grantaire’s eye to find that he’s laughing too.

“Alright, what, Enjolras?” He asks, taking the bowl from him and passing it to an amused Bossuet.

“Wanna make out?”

Enjolras expects there to be a pause, probably awkward, definitely thoughtful. He expects Grantaire to grimace, or to look shocked, but his brain is too happy not to take the risk. His expectations are not met. Instead, Grantaire replies immediately, smiling with his entire face.

“Absolutely.”

Enjolras surges forward in a burst of happiness, cupping Grantaire’s face in both hands and pulling it to meet his own. He’s reminded of how Jehan’s dogs heads are in his hands, big and soft and full of nonsense. He laughs gleefully, pulling back.

“What?” Grantaire asks, gently moving one big hand to the back of his head. Enjolras again finds himself feeling safe. He shakes his head, smiling so hard that his cheeks are sore.

“Nothing.” He says brightly. “Kiss me.”

And Grantaire does, gentle at first, and slow. His lips are soft, cautious, and Enjolras’ eyes flutter shut at the innocence of it. This isn’t Enjolras’ first kiss, but it sure feels like it is. Grantaire’s beard tickles his chin, making him smile again. Grantaire seems to take that as an invitation, because his hand clenches in his hair, and suddenly Enjolras is being kissed like it’s the end of the world.

Enjolras yelps, partly in pain, partly in surprise, but mostly in excitement. Grantaire is forceful and commanding and he melts into it, putty in his hands. His own kisses get lost against Grantaire’s lips, but Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind, and even growls a little. His hands are heavy and his kisses are hungry and Enjolras wonders how he could possibly be so turned on already. Distantly, he hears someone wolf whistle.

He taps Grantaire’s shoulders, pushing him away. Grantaire lets him go immediately, but his pupils are blown out and his breath is heavy. Enjolras’ is too.

“Sorry.” Grantaire says sheepishly. “Too much?” Enjolras shakes his head.

“No, just-” He takes another ragged breath. “Let me-”

He sits up and swings a leg over Grantaire’s lap, moving so that he’s straddling him, and drapes his arms over his shoulders. He arches his back and grins at him, but Grantaire just gapes back, as though he didn’t know that Enjolras was capable of being sexy. To his credit, neither did he.

“Carry on.” He says, and that’s all Grantaire needs before he takes him by the hips and crashes them together again. He kisses him with fervor, and Enjolras is again at his mercy. This time, though, he can roll his hips, and he revels in the tightening of Grantaire’s grip each time he does.

Grantaire kisses like the world is on fire around them. Grantaire kisses like Enjolras is Moses bringing him to the promised land. Grantaire kisses like he’s never wanted anything so badly, and Enjolras has never felt more wanted.

He is slowly losing himself for several fabulous minutes, until he feels a tap on his shoulder. “Ehem.”

Enjolras turns, very reluctantly, to find Jehan standing behind him, looking amused and smug.

“Can you calm down, please, love?” She asks, giggling. “This is all very cute, but it’s also, like, kinda gross.”

Enjolras’ mind is hazy, clouded with a delightful blend of the feeling of being high and the feeling of the tent in Grantaire’s jeans, but he still manages to be embarrassed. He’s not immediately anxious and panicking, because his brain has sort of forgot that it’s fucked, but he’s definitely still ashamed. He slides off Grantaire’s lap, earning him a disappointed whine.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, raising a hand to play with his hair. Grantaire adjusts his pants, then reaches for his free hand. It’s still warm and comforting, but it seems different this time. Like it’s sharing a secret.

“Me, too, Jehan.” Grantaire doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Sorry for giving the couch cooties, I just had to take Enjolras’ first kiss.”

“That was definitely not my first kiss, Grantaire.”

“What, really?” Grantaire grins at him. “Well whoever was was clearly not doing it right, because you were way too excited.”

“Oh no.” Says Jehan.

“Excuse you!” Enjolras exclaims, letting go of his hand to cross his arms. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Obvious Boner!”

There is a resounding laugh across the room, and Enjolras stands by triumphantly while Grantaire puts his hands up in defeat, laughing along with him. Enjolras wonders how nothing ever seems to bother him, but he imagines that, this time, both the fog in his lungs and aforementioned boner have a lot to do with it.

Jehan sits back down beside Courfeyrac, and Enjolras watches her go. They seem to be ok today, judging by her smile and her seat on his lap. After a moment, Enjolras leans back against Grantaire, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m not really mad at you.” He admits, whispering it in his ear like it’s dirty. Grantaire laughs under his breath.

“I know.”

“I actually really want to suck you off, if that’s cool by you.”

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras.” Grantaire runs a hand through his own hair, as if the very idea stresses him out. Enjolras giggles. Grantaire takes a few minutes to think on it, pursing his lips and stealing an occasional glance down at him. “Ask me again when you aren’t high.”

Enjolras nods, understanding. Still, he isn’t sure if his anxiety would allow for such a request while he’s sober. He’s disappointed of course, but it’s probably for the best.

___

It has come to Enjolras’ attention that Jehan is a drama queen.

It wasn’t obvious upon meeting her, but now that he’s been around her for several months, he’s gotten a chance to get to know her better.

Even just through Courfeyrac, Enjolras has been able to see her a little clearer. Of course, he sort of has a bias, being her devoted and loving boyfriend and all, but Courfeyrac is an open book even if he doesn’t try to be. Enjolras can gather enough information about the nature of their relationship just by the faces he makes when she texts him. For example, when she’s happy, when she’s texting him cute and sweet messages, when she’s sending him a snapchat selfie or a bit of poetry or a piece of artwork, he always wears a giant smile. It takes over his whole face until all that’s left are his dimples, and sometimes he giggles to himself or clutches his phone to his chest. Once, Enjolras even caught a tear roll down his cheek.

Unfortunately, it’s not always like that. Jehan is often texting him that she’s anxious without him, or upset because she hasn’t been getting enough attention. She needs constant love, and when she doesn’t get it for an hour, a half hour, ten minutes, she gets depressed and of course, so does Courfeyrac. Like his girlfriend, he is loud about his emotions, making it easy for Enjolras to understand whenever there is a problem.

It’s really none of Enjolras’ business, and he does his best to ignore it, especially since Courfeyrac seems perfectly happy despite the stress. However, it’s hard to ignore and he makes it his business when their nonsense gets in the way of his last club meeting.

They’re all gathered in the Student Lounge (They’re still working on it.) hustling and bustling to get everything done before everyone has to leave for the semester. Finals are only halfway through, and most clubs have ended early, or are using their last time together to take a break from all the work, but not the Amis, not if Enjolras has anything to do with it. They’re going over the year’s expenses, setting summer fundraiser plans and meeting locations, brainstorming recruitment strategies for next semester, and whatever else races through Enjolras’ brain. He’s terrified that he won’t get everything done in time to go back to studying, and he’s forgotten to take his meds today, so he’s both scattered all over the place and anxious about it.

Combeferre had warned him when they planned the meeting that it would be stressful, and even suggested calling it off altogether, but of course, Enjolras didn’t listen. And now, he regrets it.

Of course, he didn’t plan that he would forget his medication, and he certainly didn’t plan that Jehan would be in one of her moods. She’s seated at the back of the room by herself, aside from Grantaire, and together they’ve been tasked with preparing shirt designs for various events during the summer. It’s admittedly busy work, but it does have to be done eventually, and the two of them are exceptional with any design project Enjolras gives them. However, Jehan isn’t really doing anything at all, aside from glaring at Courfeyrac’s back.

“It’s entirely possible to continue meetings, though, as long as we can find some common ground to hold them.” Says Combeferre, pulling Enjolras calmly back to the conversation. Enjolras silently thanks him.

“I was considering keeping the meetings in the city, because those of us who can’t afford to travel live in town anyway.” Enjolras adds. Combeferre nods.

“Perhaps outdoors? We would have to plan for sun, but it’s still doable.”

“We could just come back to the Butterfly Garden slash Opium Den, right? What’s wrong with that?” Courfeyrac turns around and looks at Jehan, and she makes a big show of not looking at him. He sighs. “Er, maybe you’re right. Not our best bet.”

Enjolras watches Jehan bristle, her mouth falling agape. She snaps it shut, eyes narrowing and stands up abruptly, startling Grantaire. Her hair flips over her shoulder as she marches out the door without a word, her heels clacking as she goes.

Courfeyrac watches her leave, eyes following her out the door. She leaves a silence in her wake, and in it, Courfeyrac lowers his head to the table.

“I meant because I didn’t want to inconvenience her!” He groans into his elbow. “Marius is allergic to the dogs, anyway!”

Combeferre glances at Enjolras, but he pretends he doesn’t see. He’s way too mean to offer any solid advice in this situation, and to be quite frank, he thinks that Courfeyrac deserves better, even if Enjolras does like her as a person. Combeferre sighs.

“Maybe you ought to take time away from her. Step back and think about whether this… type of relationship is what you really want.”

“It is.” Courfeyrac snaps, lifting his head to glare at the two of them, which sort of annoys Enjolras, since he didn’t actually say anything. “I love her!”

“Well, yes, that’s the problem-”

“It’s not a problem!” Courfeyrac exclaims, hands balling into fists. He bares his teeth for half a second, then closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “It’s just a challenge.”

Enjolras is about to ask whether it’s worth it when he feels a familiar hand on his shoulder. He is instantly both calmed and flushed.

“You’re doing a good job, Courf.” Grantaire says, voice so deep and soothing that Enjolras wants to believe him. “You’re really, really good to her. You’re a fantastic Favorite Person and a better boyfriend for it.”

He sounds so diplomatic, and Enjolras wonders why he can’t see everything this way. He isn’t cynical about Jehan’s personality disorder in the same way that he isn’t cynical about cuddling and recreational drug and alcohol use and… being kind.

They haven’t spoken about what happened while they were high. Enjolras didn’t want to bring it up, not with finals popping up across his calendar and his anxiety rearing its ugly head whenever it gets the chance. Grantaire hasn’t brought it up either, so Enjolras is just assuming it didn’t mean anything. Which is fine.

Grantaire has taken to texting him first, though.

Courfeyrac sighs again, but his eyes are a little wet. “Why is she like this, then?”

“You know why.” Grantaire says, and that makes Courfeyrac laugh, bittersweet. He wipes his eyes. “But more specifically, she’s scared.”

“She’s always scared.”

“I know she is, but right now, she’s scared of being away from you. This summer is going to be hard.” Grantaire pauses. “It’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault.”

“I know.” Courfeyrac sniffs. “I love her so much, R. I don’t want to leave her.”

“Then don’t.”

Pause.

“Just talk to her, Courf. Tell her how you feel. Set up ground rules or something, if you have to. Do whatever makes the relationship easier on the both of you, but for God’s sake, talk to her.”

Courfeyrac nods. “When she’s done with her split.” His shaky smile brings the light back to the room, and Enjolras thinks, as he often does, that he might be missing a joke.

Perhaps, when he can find the time, he ought to do some reading.

With Jehan absent, the meeting goes by smoothly. Courfeyrac is, of course, distracted, but he manages to make some good points anyway, and with Grantaire seated right next to him, Enjolras is able to focus on the tasks at hand. While he is of course still anxious and distracted, he finds himself significantly calmed, and when he finally decides that everyone can go home for the evening, he gives Grantaire a kiss goodbye.

If he had known that it would be his last for the summer, he would have made it to his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP I can't believe this chapter is finally done. This is about a month later than I intended it to be, and I apologize for that, but this summer has been... so much...
> 
> Anyway, you'll notice a few things about this update. Most important is TW for transphobia (specifically misgendering and deadnaming) mild racism, story-typical mental health bad stuff and kind of a lot of sex/sex related talk. Orgasms are had.
> 
> This chapter's format is slightly different, because of the situational stuff in it. No big changes.
> 
> Also, check that 2/4, this is about to be longer than I intended, and that is because I have everything planned out! So expect more updates in the coming months. As a reminder, though, these take forever to write. I hope you stick by me until the end.
> 
> One more thing: I commissioned my friend and fellow illustrator Beau Pirrone (@johnlaurels on tumblr and @amphiluke on twitter) for some wonderful art of Grantaire and Enjolras! He's super talented and I am very happy! You can find that at the bottom of the page/the end of this chapter. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for waiting, and enjoy!

The general idea behind going home for the summer lies in the assumption that one has a home to go back to. For Enjolras, this isn’t really the case.

The car ride home is going to be long. He didn’t need to pack much, just enough to fill the car his parents sent for him, leaving him squished up against the window of the backseat. It’s not too uncomfortable, because he’s small, but his hips only just fit in the seat and his back hurts from binding too long. He is holding the potted plant that Jehan gave him as a going away present in his lap and it’s getting in the way of his headphones and making it difficult to use his phone. When the driver asked if he was all set to go home he had just nodded, words caught in his throat.

Sure, he has a house full of similarly freckled people to return to, but he wouldn’t call it a home. Perhaps it’s cliche, but he doesn’t consider the people who neglected him as a child and thought him less than human when he came out to be a family. He hasn’t seen them since before he started HRT. Privately, he wonders what they’ll think. He knows that his voice is deeper now, even if not by much, and he knows that his shoulders have filled out a little bit. The hair on his limbs has darkened, and he’s binding full-time now. He still gets misgendered by strangers. His thighs are still thick.

He really isn’t looking forward to his arrival halfway across the state.

Especially not when he thinks about all that he’s leaving behind in the city. All of his new friends are a pleasant distraction from his life away from campus, and without them to fill his days, he’ll have to face the summer alone. He left everyone from high school behind when he came out. They’re all he has.

His parents hadn’t accounted for the traffic. The driver doesn’t seem to mind, but the people in the cars around them do. Enjolras wonders where they’re going. Probably home, too, only they get to come back tomorrow. He rests his head against the window and watches an older woman curse at the prius in front of her, a man with two retrievers on the bed of his truck, a car full of friends singing along to the radio. Enjolras sighs.

It’s not like he’s scared that his friends will forget about him. He knows they won’t. He knows that they love him, and will probably talk to him every day, some way or another. Hell, Courfeyrac has already snapchatted him three times just on the ride home.

Make that four.

Enjolras slides it open with his thumb and waits for it to load, his screen filling with the now-familiar yellow. He hadn’t had the app before meeting Courfeyrac and his friends, but he quickly learned to love seeing their smiling faces so often. The snap he receives is just a selfie on the couch in the Butterfly Garden/Opium Den, but it makes him happy anyway. He wonders if everyone is there.

He snaps a quick photo of himself to reply with. The sun is in the photo, hiding half his face in the light, and he isn’t exactly smiling in it, but he sends it anyway, captioned: “I miss you guys already!”

Enjolras can’t help but think of the time he’s spent on that couch, resting his head back against the window. Not a moment later, Courfeyrac replies.

It’s a photo of Grantaire, but he’s hiding his face behind a throw pillow. Enjolras giggles. It’s very obviously him. He can see his belly.

The caption says: “he’s embarrassed bc ur hot”

Enjolras feels his face burning, so he takes another. This time, he lifts a hand to strategically cover his cheeks and mouth, and tries to look incredulous.

“Tell him I said he’s nuts, but thanks.”

He stares at the image, mentally picking at it, until he deletes the caption.

He adds the speed filter. 40 miles per hour.

“Tell him I miss him too.”

Grantaire isn’t returning home, and even if he was, he wouldn’t be anywhere near Enjolras. He lives in the city, he has rent to pay alongside Jehan. He probably has a job there, something Enjolras ought to know, had he paid any attention. He sighs.

His phone buzzes.

“come home soon, e. i really, really miss you too.”

__

In hindsight, Enjolras doesn’t really need a job, at least not for monetary purposes. All the money he needs for the summer is provided by his family. He has a stocked kitchen, paid off credit, and enough clothes to dress three of him. He doesn’t need his own car because he has a driver, and there isn’t a luxury item that he would want to save up for that he doesn’t already have.

However, without a job, he’d be stuck at home in a too-big too-empty house all day with the possibility of an unwarranted interaction with his parents, and he can’t have that.

He didn’t really know where to start looking at first. Enjolras is a sociology major, and has also never had a job of his own. There isn’t really a job market for inexperienced 19 year olds. Luckily, a combination of previously untapped but apparently noticeable charm and very low standards landed him a cashier job at the local Whole Foods.

In the summer sun, everything outside the store is cheery and bright, but it’s too cold inside at the checkout. The air conditioner, as always, is kept too high, so Enjolras has a red cardigan over his uniform to keep him warm. His new boss doesn’t seem to mind. He’s been working nearly full time, 36 hours a week. He finds himself missing the sun. His work keeps him busy and away from his parents, as well as a little stressed, but he keeps his phone on so that when Grantaire inevitably texts him, he hears it.

Grantaire has several jobs for the summer. He was lucky enough to get the job that he had been pining after- a pre-college counselor for incoming art majors, sort of a coveted position. (Enjolras was the first person he called to tell, right after he got the email.) He’s also kept his year-round job as a barista at the not-Starbucks down the street, earned a couple bucks walking Jehan’s dogs, painted 2 murals in some low-income houses, and has been a handyman for off-campus students, reasoning that since they usually can’t afford a “real handyman” it’s the “right thing to do.”

Basically, Enjolras is smitten.

Grantaire has an excuse, though. The Butterfly Garden/Opium Den is expensive, and Jehan is only working one job. On top of that, Courfeyrac has been spending the majority of his time there with her, which isn’t a problem, of course, but Grantaire has found himself paying for dinner for all three of them. That’s no one’s fault but his own: He’s very generous with his money.

Enjolras would be the same way, had he anyone to spend it on. He’s lonely, and wealthy, and it really only makes sense that he buy himself a sex toy.

He and Grantaire have been talking a lot lately. If they aren’t both working, they’ll be texting almost nonstop, and they often end the night with a nice call. At first, Enjolras was too shy to Skype, but that changed when Grantaire introduced him to a reliable alternative that also lets them stream videos together. The attention is usually on the stream rather than each other, so Enjolras is less nervous.

Still nervous. Just, less.

Seeing Grantaire and talking to him so much is fun and surprisingly easy. Grantaire is a pleasure to talk to, as long as they aren’t talking about political issues, but even then, Enjolras can’t find it in his heart to get angry with him. Knowing Grantaire is understanding that he’s only making an argument for attention. It’s annoying, yes, and rude, definitely, but it’s clear he’s only doing it to get a rise out of him. He doesn’t really believe any of his arguments, and Enjolras thinks that there’s a part of him that even believes in himself.

For the first time in his life, Enjolras is having romantic feelings. And they’re followed by sexual ones. And Enjolras is totally ok with that.

It’s not like he isn’t weirded out by it. It’s definitely weird, but he’s sort of gotten used to it. Touching himself has become a natural process to him, like brushing his teeth twice a day and eating breakfast. Sometimes it happens, sometimes he doesn’t feel like he needs to.

That being said, he’s ready to try something new. Enjolras wants to experience more things, and anyway, his fingers aren’t big enough. He’s getting frustrated.

It’s a little after midnight, the first of June, and he’s only just ended his call with Grantaire. It was pleasant, but Enjolras had been a little distracted. His idea had been weighing heavy in his head, making for sort of an awkward conversation.

“What’s on your mind?” Grantaire had asked, not unkindly, halfway into another questionably offensive episode of Rick and Moray. Enjolras, caught off guard, had turned what he hoped was a lovely shade of pink.

“Nothing important.”

“You sure?” He had pushed, frowning deeply. “Did I do something?” Enjolras shook his head.

“Of course not! You’re perfect, I just miss you.”

It hadn’t been a lie. Sure, it wasn’t exactly what Enjolras had been thinking, but it’s true that it all leads back to that. He still thinks about Grantaire when he’s touching himself, and only Grantaire. He’s spent a fair amount of time wondering if it’s wrong, to think about his dear friend like that. Maybe he ought to ask someone who knows better.

Grantaire smiled in response, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I miss you too, Enjolras.” He had said thoughtfully, and then he hit play.

Now, though, Enjolras is left to miss him on his own. Grantaire has students to take care of and a shift at the coffee shop in the morning, and Enjolras has a phone call to make.

He dials Courfeyrac’s number like clockwork, fingers having memorized the digits from last semester. He thought about calling Combeferre, because he can trust Combeferre with anything, but sex isn’t really his thing either. (Or maybe it is? Enjolras hasn’t really talked to him in a while, and certainly not about that.) Courfeyrac is the right friend to help in this situation, and he picks up after two rings.

“Hell-ooo?”

“Hey, Courf.” Enjolras feels immediately at ease upon hearing his voice. “You got a minute? I need some help.”

“Yeah, Enj, my dude, I got a minute.” Enjolras laughs. Courfeyrac has almost definitely been drinking, but he probably should have expected that. It is midnight, after all. “What’s wrong, babe?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just about to make an important purchase and I need some advice.” Courfeyrac laughs.

“I’m really not your guy here, pal. Did you try going to Com-“

“I’m buying a sex toy, Courf.”

Courfeyrac laughs, sunny and bright, and Enjolras feels his heart ache with how much he misses being around him.

“Seriously?” He asks through hysterics. His voice quiets as he tells someone, presumably his girlfriend: “You’re gonna wanna hear this!” Enjolras huffs, not missing him as much anymore.

“Come on, don’t be like that!” He whines, but he’s greeted by a new voice in response.

“Hello, Enjolras.” Jehan says conspiratorially. Enjolras notes that her voice seems steadier than her boyfriend’s, but his stomach falls anyway.

“Hi, Jehan. Can I have Courf, please?”

Jehan laughs. “Well, sure, if you want to talk to a drunk per- Yes you are! Get off me, I’m on the phone!” Enjolras rolls his eyes, holding the phone dramatically far away from his face, as if someone could see him. “Sorry, a drunk person that’s never actually used a vibrator or dildo on himself. Just me, and like, other girls, I assume.”

Enjolras sighs. It’s probably better to talk to her.

“And you have?”

“Yup!”

He just really doesn’t want to share this with her.

It’s not like he doesn’t like her. Or he’s scared of her. He just doesn’t want to talk to Grantaire’s roommate about this. He’s not scared.

“Ok.” He says, after leaving her hanging for a few moments. “Can you help me then, Jehan?”

“Of course, sweetie.” She says, and her voice is somehow both soothing and victorious. “What are you looking for, exactly?”

“A vibrator, and something insertable.” Enjolras replies immediately, having previously rehearsed this conversation.

“You could do both in one, you know, if you’ve got the funds for it. Personally, I think it’s totally worth it.”

“I know.” Enjolras says, and he really does. He’s definitely feels lost, but he has a good idea of what he wants. “I think that’s a little much for me right now. This is still very new to me, you know?”

“I do, baby.” Jehan coos. Apparently Courfeyrac has quieted. Enjolras imagines him with his head on her lap and her fingers in his hair. It’s almost a lovely thought. “I’m really proud of you, you’re doing good.”

Enjolras smiles in spite of himself. “Thanks, Jehan.”

“You’re welcome. It’s so good that you’re experimenting with your sexuality.” She says knowingly. “I’m gonna send you some links to websites you can peruse, but what sort of dildo are you looking for?”

“Um.”

“Like realistic or not, bigger or smaller- and don’t bite off more than you can chew, that can really hurt you…” Jehan pauses, giving Enjolras a moment to think.

“I think I want something bigger.” He says slowly, considering his fingers. “I’m really looking for something different than what I can do on my own here. Hence the vibe.”

Jehan giggles. “Well, honey, I don’t have a vagina, so I can’t help you there, but generally vibrators are pretty easy. Get one that’s wireless and isn’t hard plastic and you’ll be fine. Anyway, big dildo.” She says, like it’s nothing. “Do you want a real-looking one? Like, one that looks like a dick?”

Enjolras hadn’t really thought about that. He takes a moment to imagine using a real-looking dick to fuck himself. His face burns.

“Yeah.” He says in a small voice.

“Ok!” Jehan’s voice is chipper as ever. “Good call, if you ask me. I can link you to some that feel like it, too, so it’s just like regular sex.”

“Oh.” Enjolras manages. “I’m not sure if…” He trails off, unable to put it into words.

“Want me to slow down?” Jehan asks in a far gentler voice than before. “We don’t have to do this all right now.”

Enjolras sighs again. “No, I know. I’m just.” He takes a deep breath in. “It’s just that I’m demisexual. This is all very new to me, and it’s only because, um…”

“You don’t want just any old dick.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s ok! Let’s get you one that’s bright purple, then.” Jehan giggles. Enjolras is taken aback, and all he can do is laugh. Nothing is sacred in Jehan’s world. “Mine’s pink!”

He can hear Courfeyrac saying something in the background, probably sloppily chastising her for revealing such personal information, but Enjolras isn’t bothered. In fact, she sort of calmed him, in her own way. He’s grateful.

“Yeah, actually.” He decides, smiling. “Let’s do that!” Jehan laughs.

“Perfect! Courf, go back to your Cape Cod chips, baby, he wants the purple one!” Enjolras can hear Courfeyrac laughing, but he doesn’t really mind.

“Anyway, Enjolras, check your phone, I just linked you to the perfect one…”

___

 

It’s been a ridiculously stressful day at work when Enjolras comes home to find his parents’ cars waiting for him. This would normally be very upsetting, but right now he just wants to get upstairs so that he can charge his phone and text Grantaire back. He sighs, thanks the driver, and makes his way up the spiraling stone walkway to the front door. Usually, Enjolras follows him to the back door so that he can say hello to the rest of the staff, but his parents wouldn’t be very happy about that, and besides, it’s easier to just see them and get it over with. 

The big, mahogany door creaks upon entry, not used to being opened so casually, and he is greeted by the smiling faces of Charles and Claire Enjolras.

It’s too heavy, and Enjolras stumbles a little, feet slipping on the cold marble floor. It’s been shined and waxed in anticipation of their arrival, and Enjolras immediately regrets not visiting the staff.

“Emilie!” His father booms, flashing him a perfect pearly grin. Enjolras winces. “Where have you been? Out with friends?”

“Actually, I’ve-“

“Oh, Charles, she’s been at work, look! Where is it love, what does your shirt say?” Claire approaches him, pulling him into what is likely the lightest hug anyone has ever received, as though she were hugging a total stranger.

“Hi, mom. It’s WholeF-“

“WholeFoods!” Exclaims his father, following Claire to put one toned arm around her little waist. Enjolras notices her smile falter, only slightly. “Great place, great place. What are they paying you there? Minimum wage?”

Enjolras decides against giving him a proper answer, and instead just nods.

“Nothing wrong with that!” He says, then finally lowers his voice. “But ah, Emilie, you really don’t need to be working. Your mother and I have everything under control, financially.”

“You never have to lift a finger, Emilie, darling. Why not just find a nice young man-“

“From the country club!”

“A nice young man from the country club. Or the yacht club. Or, well, your father and I are part of several clubs, honey, the point is you really ought be thinking about marriage.”

Across the room, the phone begins to ring.

“A young lady doesn’t need a part-time job, Emilie!” Charles says, his voice becoming louder to drown out the noise. With the volume comes more passion, and he waves his hands as he talks. Enjolras shrinks back, head cloudy. “Certainly not an Enjolras lady-”

“It’s unbecoming, he means, dear.”

“Precisely! Unbecoming! I beg you, put your time into something more productive!” He moves to pick up the phone, snatching it from its hinges with so much force that the nearest wall painting shakes on its nail. “Hello?!”

Enjolras takes a moment to gather his breath, tuning out his father as he converses far too furiously with whoever is on the phone. He clenches and unclenches his fists, digging his nails into the soft flesh of his palms, but he doesn’t feel any pain. In fact, he doesn’t feel much of anything.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s dissociating when his father’s voice breaks through the haze.

“Emilie, you have a caller.” Charles says sternly, eyes darting between Enjolras and Claire. He places his hand on the phone to cover the microphone. “A very… urban caller.”

“Oh.” Enjolras gulps. “I have to take that. It’s really important. From school.” He reaches for the phone, ignoring the shock on his father’s face. “Good talk though, guys, really.”

“Emilie, you really ought to-“

“Ok, yeah, goodnight mom!” Enjolras interrupts her, finally having worked up the nerve, and grabs the phone out of his dumbfounded father’s hand. “Night dad!”

It isn’t until he’s darted up the stairs and slammed the door to his bedroom that he answers the phone, quite out of breath, heart still pounding. “Hello?”

“Hey there.”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras sighs, the familiar baritone clearing his head. His ears are ringing with his father’s words, and his chest aches, both in reaction to the conversation he just endured and to wishing Grantaire were there to hold him. He knows it’s a waste of time, Grantaire is so far away, but God, he would be so safe rocking in his arms.

“It’s your favorite urban friend.”

“Sorry. He’s-“ Enjolras sniffles, unable to hold himself back. He puts forth a valiant effort not to cry, producing a tiny choking sound.

“Hey, hey, now.” Grantaire’s voice tries to comfort him, taken aback. “I wasn’t serious, it’s ok! I’m not upset with you at all, honey!”

“I know.” Enjolras wipes his eyes, but the tears keep coming. “I just hate him so much, R! I hate them both!” He cries, sitting back on his bed and curling in on himself, hugging his knees with one arm. He pretends he is not alone. “They don’t love me, Grantaire! They don’t love me at all! They never have!”

“Enj-“

“They kept calling me Emilie! Who the fuck is Emilie?!” Enjolras demands. “Not me! Not fucking me!”

“I know. Not you, sweetheart.” Grantaire agrees, voice soft. “Your dad didn’t know what I was saying when I asked for you.” Enjolras, bitter, has to laugh at that.

“Yes he did. He just didn’t fucking care.” He sniffs again, loosening his grip on himself. “I’ve been out to him for over a year!” He sobs. “I don’t think he even remembers my name.”

“Oh, Enjolras.” Grantaire says. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Enjolras says, heart in his throat. “You actually called at a fantastic time. He and my mom were just in the middle of telling me to find a husband.”

“How cliche.”

“Right?” Enjolras giggles at that, finally able to wipe his eyes again. “They suggested a guy from, and I quote, ‘the country club or the yacht club’.”

“Holy shit.” Grantaire says, and Enjolras can see his smile. “You really are rich. Be my sugar daddy.”

Enjolras laughs out loud. “Oh my god. I don’t think I could be anyone’s daddy. What would you even want me to buy?”

“You have no idea how expensive art supplies are.”

“Fair enough.” He says, smiling. “Seriously, though. You really saved me back there. How did you even find this number?”

“Courfeyrac.” Grantaire explains. “You hadn’t texted me back in a while, and I got worried.” Enjolras winces, and takes his dead phone out of his back pocket. He holds a brief mental funeral.

“Sorry. My phone died.” Enjolras says, feeling guilty. He focuses on the way his voice sounds and the rate of his breathing. He’s admittedly calmer now that Grantaire is with him, but he doesn’t want to risk another anxiety attack, or worse, especially if Grantaire had been so worried about him. “I thought I’d be able to text you back a lot sooner.”

“It’s ok, I should have just waited.”

“No, you really shouldn’t have.” Enjolras giggles awkwardly. “I was saved by a combination of my father’s racism and your apparently very urban-sounding voice.”

“It’s just that everything I say is to the beat of Rapper’s Delight.”

“You know, I like you now, but I feel like I would like you a lot more if you could rap.” Enjolras laughs, heart filling back up again.

“I can. Don’t you know it’s a requirement for every black guy?”

“Someone forgot to tell B.o.B.”

“Fuck!” Grantaire exclaims, and Enjolras is very proud of himself for getting a pop culture reference right. “Fucking God, you’re perfect, Enjolras.” Enjolras giggles again, bringing a hand up to play with his hair. “I miss you so much.”

Enjolras sucks in a breath, hand again clenching just a little.

“Hush.” He murmurs. “I miss you too. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help it. You took my filter with you when you left.” Grantaire pauses, leaving Enjolras to think on how sad he sounded. Did he originally call to lament? Did he put his needs aside to comfort Enjolras? “I meant to talk to you about that, actually.”

“I’m really sorry.” Enjolras apologizes again, shaky. “I didn’t mean to-“

“Hey, none of that. You’re welcome to cry to me, you know that.” Grantaire interrupts, and actually, Enjolras hadn’t known that, but the sentiment makes his heart flip flop. It’s so lovely to be reassured that Grantaire cares about him. “I was just wondering if it would be possible, on your end, for me to visit you.”

“What?” Enjolras squeaks.

“Just on your end. As if there’s nothing stopping me.”

“I-I guess.” Enjolras manages. “I would love that. I would really, really love that. My parents are never home, God, you could stay for the summer, but is that even realistic? Could you even do a weekend?”

“See, that’s why I’m asking. Precollege ends in a couple weeks, and I can get a weekend off at the coffee shop.” Grantaire tells him excitedly. “I could even take it off at the school if I needed to, you know. They love me there, they probably wouldn’t even mind.”

“Oh my gosh.”

“Would you like that? Would that be a good thing?”

“Yes.” Enjolras breathes. “I would pay for travel. I don’t care, I-“ And before he knows it, he’s sobbing again. He feels incredibly special. “Grantaire, yes, that would be so good.”

“You don’t have to pay for anything.” Grantaire says, laughing, and he sounds so happy, and more than a little relieved. Enjolras almost laughs too, at the notion. He would have done anything to see Grantaire again. “I’m more than willing.”

“Yeah, but I’m your sugar daddy, remember?” Enjolras jokes through his tears. “I have to pay.”

“I’ll have to buy you dinner, then.” Grantaire says. Enjolras giggles, sniffling.

“Ok. I think I can handle that.” He says. “Come whenever. As soon as you can. I don’t care.”

“How ‘bout we get on Skype so we can talk it over better? I miss your face.”

____

 

 

> The Wikipedia article on Psychological Manipulation has very little to say about personality disorders, which is both reassuring and a red flag. It is no secret that people with BPD can be, and often are, manipulative, but when provided with little to no information about BPD as a whole, people are lead to believe only what they can find, i.e.: people with BPD are manipulative 
> 
> While this, as well as the other negative points that the article addresses— there are quite a few, I encourage you to visit the page, are often true, the article also mentions that manipulation as a defining characteristic has been removed from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or DSM-V, is the 2013 update to the American Psychiatric Association’s (APA) classification and diagnostic tool. Why, then, is BPD even included in the article?
> 
> Borderline Personality Disorder has a huge, impending stigma against it that is: “People with BPD are manipulators, liars, cruel, toxic, etcetera etcetera.” Wikipedia articles about us are probably even a better source than most googleable ones, and even then, they come out like this.
> 
> Although, the Psychological Manipulation article says we are “often… physically attractive,” so there’s that.

 

___

 

Enjolras’ package arrives while he is at work. He knows, because he’d been getting antsy and subscribed to USPS text messages, and he got the alerts between texts from Grantaire at the cash register. He’s not home, and luckily, his parents aren’t either. A housekeeper probably delivered it right to his room, and the thought leaves him giddy and excited until he gets home.

He uses his house key to tear open the box, first appreciating it’s discreet packaging. He is hands are shaky, nervous to see what’s inside. When he does eventually get it open, he examines the cases inside. Their print is highly feminized, but he considers that to be more positive than negative. Pink and flowery boxes for each of the toys, with their own mildly embarrassing descriptions of the “fun” he’s going to have. The lubricant is in a sleek purple bottle, looking far more professional, but unmistakably sexual.

First, Enjolras takes his new vibrator out of it’s package. It’s a little purple bullet, to match his new dildo, coated in a soft silicon. He turns it over in his palm, biting his lip, then flicks it on. There are several settings, and he flips through them curiously. Each is different, stronger or faster than the last. It’s fairly loud, but that won’t present a problem until he needs to go back to school. For now, it’ll work swimmingly.

He pulls out his dildo next, holding his breath. He took Jehan’s advice in purchasing it, and by the looks of it, by the size of it, he won’t be disappointed. It’s fleshy, but undoubtedly hard, and only a little intimidating. He holds it in two hands, running his fingers over it, eyes darting between it and the vibrator.

Now’s a good a time as any, he thinks, hands subconsciously stroking the cock. He likes the way it looks in his slender fingers.

Enjolras places it gingerly on his bed and sits next to it, purposely not looking at it as he takes off his clothes. Shirt, binder, pants, and finally boxer briefs. He drags his hand up the familiar stretch of his thigh to his pubic area.

He’s wet. He has been for several minutes, turned on by the idea of using his new toys. It’s new and exciting and he rubs his hand between his legs with little precision. Usually, he’s more careful, but today, he doesn’t want to waste any more time.

After a moment, he reaches for his new vibrator, turning it back onto it’s first setting. He breathes in deep, eyes squeezing shut, and presses it against his clit.

“Ah!” Enjolras yanks it back. It’s an entirely new feeling, and it takes him by surprise. He presses it back after a moment of giggling at himself, and finds, upon further inspection, that it feels much stronger against his clit than it did against his hands. He almost isn’t sure if that’s good, but then his fingers move ever so slightly, and it’s _right there_.

He hasn’t felt anything like it before, and apparently neither has his throat, because the noises escaping him are entirely against his will. It’s fantastic, much different than his fingers, much more unforgiving. He rolls his hips into it, legs spread as wide as they’ll go in his position. It’s awkward, but he’s distracted by how good he’s feeling.

Enjolras holds it hard to his clitoris, his breath coming out quick and loud between strings of whimpers. He flicks the switch again, changing the speed, and it’s just as good. It’s so new, and so wonderful, Enjolras is lost to the vibrations already. He’s too gone to focus on doing anything else, so his free hand just grasps the sheets below it.

His hips seem to move on their own, and he wants so badly to come, but he also longs to be full. He imagines Grantaire with his tongue on his clit, licking him dry with his hands on his ass, humming and growling into him like he’s delicious. He comes hard, hips shaking and back arching.

Enjolras doesn’t even wait until he can see straight again before grabbing his new dildo and running it against his wet pussy. He imagine’s it’s Grantaire’s cock, and Grantaire is holding him down and teasing him, smiling at him like he has a secret. Enjolras is so loud, begging his fantasy to fuck him.

He doesn’t bother with the lube, already slick with come, and presses it’s head inside him. His mouth drops open just at it’s thickness. It’s already so much bigger than his two fingers, feeling closer to three, but it’s so much different than doing it himself. This way, it almost feels like it’s really Grantaire inside him.

“Oh, God.” He mumbles, pushing it further. It feels so good to be filling himself up, but he pulls it out again to start a gentle rhythm. Halfway in, all the way out. He whines, listening to the wet noises it’s making and thrusting his hips up against it.

Enjolras is gentle with himself to start, but with every passing minute he wants more, more, more. He imagines Grantaire torturing him, knowing he’s over sensitive from coming already, and flat out refusing to fuck him unless he begs again. Enjolras would. Right now, he would do anything for it.

He pushes it all the way in, crying out when he’s finally stuffed full. It’s so big, too big, and Enjolras loves it. He pulls it out and does it again, choking out a long sob. He feels drunk and heavy, and Grantaire is fucking him hard, quick and merciless and sudden. Grantaire knows he’s going to come again, and he’s waiting for it, not slowing down. He wants to please him, would have him orgasm ten more times if he could.

Grantaire would fuck him all night, he would fill him until they’re both exhausted, kissed silly, fucked stupid.

“Oh, R, fuck!” He cries, wrenching his cock in and out in quick succession. It’s so fucking good, Grantaire is so good to him, Grantaire wants him to come all over himself, he’s making him-

Enjolras tears it out and squirts onto his bed. He yells and shakes and tosses his head back, second orgasm even better than the first. His bed creaks in harmony with his cries. He makes a mess, having come all over himself just like he thought he would, not to mention his bed.

His breath is heavy when he comes to. He grins.

“Wow.” He whispers out loud to himself, looking over his bed. That was incredible. That was amazing. He is so content that he just lays in the wet spot that he’s made and imagines Grantaire laying beside him, equally sated. He wonders if Grantaire is affectionate after sex. Probably. He’s probably cuddly and sweet and sleepy.

He wonders if Grantaire would treat sex like something lovely.

Enjolras closes his eyes. Grantaire is coming to visit in two weeks. He’ll be spending a whole weekend, Thursday evening to Sunday afternoon. There’s been the implication that it’s not an entirely platonic visit- promises of snuggles and hand-holding and implications of kisses- but Enjolras isn’t sure how he’ll be able to handle himself. He wants to kiss Grantaire all the time. He wants to hear about his day in person rather than over text, he wants to shower with him and face swap and wear his clothes. He wants to stop fantasizing about Grantaire and make it a reality. He has to tell Grantaire something, he can’t hide his feelings forever.

Enjolras sighs dejectedly, and pulls out his phone and texts him.

___

Enjolras is a mess.

The bus station is mostly barren, just a lonely parking lot in the middle of nowhere, and Enjolras is early anyway. Grantaire’s bus won’t be here for another twenty minutes or so, and the last bus before that left for it’s next stop half an hour ago. This town is just vast, fake lawns and private schools and old money, and it’s not exactly anyone’s final destination, so the bus station is dark and empty.

Enjolras is sitting on a bench at the stop, having elected to wait where he can see the bus coming rather than sit in the car with his driver, tapping his foot and scrolling aimlessly through twitter. He is doing his best to keep calm, but his heart is pounding and his stomach is churning, an uncomfortable and mildly frightening combination of excited and nervous.

For the past two weeks, all Enjolras and Grantaire have talked about is tonight and the next few days. Enjolras knows that Grantaire is just as excited as he is. That’s part of the problem.

There’s nothing to do here.

Big fancy houses and big fancy names are fun for those types of people to look at, and their stories and scandals are fun for those types of people to hear. Grantaire is anything but that kind of person. In the city, he’s surrounded by art and culture and places to go and be entertained. The only thing for him here is, well, Enjolras.

It’s not like Enjolras is complaining. He would be happy to just lay in bed with Grantaire all weekend, not even doing anything but holding each other, only getting up when absolutely necessary. It’s actually kind of a nice thought, when he thinks about it.

He shakes his head, looking down at his knees. Even if Grantaire did want to do nothing all weekend, and he’s sure that he doesn’t, all that extra time alone together would be too much for Enjolras. With a plan for the day, Enjolras can put aside how much he wants wants him. At least until the evening.

Even if Grantaire would be interested in sex this weekend, it’s not like Enjolras wants to crowd him.

He notices himself shaking a little bit and takes three deep breaths, checking the time on his phone. Grantaire should be here any minute now.

At least Enjolras knows he looks okay. He hasn’t really had to worry about that since high school, when he presented feminine. He was admittedly well-dressed back then, and wore a full face of makeup every day, along with a carefully planned outfit. Nowadays, he just wears what he likes, and sometimes wears makeup. When he feels like it.

Tonight, he spent forever trying to pick out an outfit, with a little help from the kitchen girls and his housekeeper. He isn’t particularly close to any of them, but he’s out to them, and they were all quite excited to know that he had a boy coming over. He was reminded of the Disney Beauty and the Beast film and slightly offended that he was the beast.

Either way, he ended up looking nice enough, in an outfit that is just short of ‘trying too hard’. He’s wearing his hair up in a stylish bun, his feet in sandals, and his face in concealer and foundation and an extra layer of eyebrows. Just in case.

Oh, and he’s also wearing his packer.

Maybe it’s because he’s at a lonely bus station by himself at night, and he’s a lot safer the more he passes. Maybe it’s because he wants that little bit of confidence that wearing his dick gives him. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

Enjolras hears the bus before he sees it, and it’s fairly distant rumble sparks his nerves again. He snaps his head up, watching as it slows to a stop, hands shaking. The driver gets off first, propping the door open and getting people’s luggage from the bottom of the bus. With every passenger coming out into the warm evening air, Enjolras gets more and more tense, until finally, Grantaire appears.

Enjolras watches with a giant smile on his face as Grantaire gets his suitcase from the driver. He’s blocked by the little crowd sitting down, so he stands up, but he still reaches only a whopping 5’5 on his tiptoes. He waves his arms, giggling anxiously, but instead decides to just push through the people.

“R!”

When Grantaire turns around, the world moves in slow motion. He sees Enjolras, and Enjolras watches his face light up. His smile is big and crooked and so inviting that when he opens his arms, it only makes sense that Enjolras run right into them.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire surprises him by squeezing him (a little too hard) and lifting him up to spin him around. Enjolras feels like he’s floating on air, dissolved into happy giggles. Grantaire is so big and warm. Why was he ever so nervous? “I’m so glad I’m finally here.”

“Me too.” Enjolras breathes. Grantaire puts him down, but doesn’t let him go. Enjolras doesn’t mind.

“God, I missed you so much.” He says, pressing his nose into Enjolras’ hair. They stand like that for several minutes. Enjolras’s hands find their way to his chest, and he listens to the soft beating of Grantaire’s heart.

“I missed you too.”

Grantaire pulls back, and there’s that smile again. “Look at you.” He says, hand on Enjolras’ cheek. “You look fantastic.”

Enjolras flushes, pressing his face into his hand. “So do you.” He replies, and it’s true. They’ve seen each other between computer screens, but that has nothing on seeing each other in person. Grantaire is darker from the summer sun, and somehow more toned. He still has that belly that Enjolras knows and loves, but his arms are made up of more muscle than fat now, at least as far as Enjolras can tell. Even though he’s darker, his face is brighter than ever, shining like headlights in the dim parking lot.

“I look like garbage and we both know it.” He counters cheerfully. Enjolras almost protests, but is caught by giggles, and instead just kisses his hand. He looks up to gauge Grantaire’s reaction, but Grantaire looks impossibly fond. “Come on, Enj. Where’s our getaway car?”

Enjolras gently removes his hand from his cheek and laces their fingers together so he can pull him across the parking lot. He walks quickly, knowing that his face is burning. It’s not easy to tell in the low light, but embarrassing nonetheless.

When they get to the car, Grantaire whistles. “Wow.” Enjolras doesn’t know what that means, nor does he know anything about cars, but he nods.

“Yeah.” He lets Grantaire’s hand go so he can put his bag in the trunk. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with it’s weight, but Enjolras’ eyes linger on his arms. “Wait until you see the rest of the Enjolras estate.”

His disgust must be apparent in his voice, because Grantaire reaches again for his hand, just to give it a squeeze.

“Hey, it’s ok.” He says, smiling a little. “I’m here.”

—

Enjolras doesn’t bother giving Grantaire the grand tour upon arrival, just leads him up to his room. His parents aren’t home, of course, but he knows that the kitchen girls have left a little something for the two of them to munch on before bed, and anyway, he can always show Grantaire around tomorrow.

Also, he wants to be held as soon as possible.

“A little something” had apparently been an understatement, because the first words Grantaire utters, before even dropping his bag, are: “Holy shit.”

Enjolras turns on the light to find that they’ve set up a small table on the hardwood, covered in a white tablecloth and an array of snacks. A cheese tray, a fruit platter, a party sized bag of corn chips accompanied by both salsa and guacamole, a pitcher of water, several pieces of penny candy and chocolate, and, of course, a bottle of wine.

“This is fucking awesome.” Grantaire says in awe with a big smile on his face, immediately reaching for the wine to read the label. “1998? What even is this?”

Enjolras tenses. “Um.” He doesn’t want to drink, he just wants to hang out. Eat some fancy cheese and go to bed.

“I mean, I’m not really into drinking so much anymore.” Grantaire says awkwardly, clearly trying to keep the conversation light. Enjolras notices a different air to his voice, and wonders what he means by ‘anymore.’ Grantaire puts the bottle down and reaches for a grape. “But it’s still really cool. Do you always eat this fancy?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No.” He smiles. “But the girls in the kitchen heard I had a boy coming over, so…”

“I wonder who told them that.”

“Somebody very excited.”

Grantaire grins, then shoves a handful of grapes into his mouth.

“Oh my God.” Enjolras deadpans.

Grantaire tries to talk, but his mouth is clearly way too full, and instead he just opens his arms. Enjolras laughs. Grantaire is always surprising him with dumb goofs like this, and Enjolras often forgets what they had been talking about before. He shakes his head, but gives in scooting anticlimactically into his arms. He’s warm and safe there, but Grantaire’s chewing is super gross.

“Ew. Stop.” Enjolras manages between giggles. Grantaire lowers his face, threatening to kiss his cheek, his grip tight on Enjolras’ belly.

“Stop, oh my God!” Enjolras shrieks, smacking Grantaire’s arms, but he can’t wipe the smile off his own face. “You’re the worst!”

Grantaire finally manages to swallow all of his grapes, and immediately grins at him. He has grape skin in his teeth. His face is so close. Enjolras is so gone. “No, you’re the worst.”

Grantaire’s hands are suddenly very present on Enjolras’ waist, big and strong, and his shirt is far too thin. Enjolras runs his fingers up his arms, finding them to be surprisingly soft. He briefly reminds himself to breathe.

“You know,” Grantaire starts, grabbing Enjolras’ attention. He looks up to meet his eye, only to get lost again. “If I kiss you right now, it’s gonna taste like grapes.”

Enjolras laughs out loud in pure surprise. Again, some dumb thing Grantaire says has caught him off guard, effectively distracting him from nervousness.

“You’re ridiculous!” He exclaims, breaking eye contact to turn perfectly scarlet and stare at Grantaire’s left arm. “But I like grapes.”

Grantaire smiles in Enjolras’ peripheral like Christmas day and lifts one hand to cup his cheek for the second time this evening, bringing him back. Enjolras sees the deep brown of his eyes for a split second, before they close and Grantaire presses his smile against his lips.

It’s not like the first time. Grantaire is gentle, taking his time. His lips are soft and his beard, though trimmed neatly, tickles Enjolras’ chin. He kisses Enjolras like he wants to savor every second, tiny pecks like he’s learning him. He kisses like he is fragile, like he is precious. Enjolras makes sure to be pliant, to follow Grantaire’s lead, but it isn’t exactly difficult. He’s finally getting what he wants.

Grantaire pulls away too soon, smile ever-present. Enjolras pouts.

“Well, don’t stop.” He says, and that makes Grantaire toss his head back and laugh.

“Enjolras, you are full of surprises.” He says, and kisses him again.

__

In the morning, the sun shines through white curtains that have been blown away by a gentle breeze, and Enjolras wakes to the feeling of Grantaire drawing on his belly with his index finger. The sun in his eyes tells him that it’s late, probably early afternoon, which makes perfect sense. They stayed up until morning watching movies and playing games, and anyway, he’s always slept better with Grantaire than alone. His back is pressed against Grantaire’s belly, and he knows that if it weren’t for the central air and the open window they’d be too hot, but right now, in this moment, he feels just right.

“Good morning,” whispers Grantaire, gently pulling his hands out from underneath Enjolras’ shirt. They hadn’t travelled too far, Enjolras notices, just enough to warm him.

“Hi.” He says, turning around in Grantaire’s arms to meet his eye. “Were you watching me sleep?”

Grantaire smiles, and even without his contacts Enjolras can see his embarrassment.

“Yeah.” He admits. “But in my defense, I mostly just want to draw you like this.”

“Like what? Asleep?” Grantaire laughs.

“Actually, yes, smarts.” He says. “You look peaceful when you sleep. I’ve never seen you so at ease.”

The thought isn’t meant to hurt his feelings, but it does anyway, and Enjolras closes his eyes again. He’s too sleepy to have to be upset.

“I think I’ve calmed down a lot.” He mumbles, resting his forehead on Grantaire’s chest. “I haven’t really stressed out about anything since we started…” Enjolras trails off. There’s a word for what they’re doing together. He’s just too hazy to find it.

“Talking?” Grantaire offers, in a tone Enjolras doesn’t recognize.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“You calmed me down, I think. In your own way.”

Grantaire is silent for a moment. Enjolras doesn’t dare open his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

___

 

Grantaire only kisses when he has permission, which is both a good thing and a bad thing.

In the past twenty four hours, Enjolras has been kissed more than he ever has been, and it’s quite frankly overwhelming. He feels beautiful: lips swollen red, cheeks pink, skin warm. Grantaire, though still mostly an obnoxious goofball, has showered him with compliments that range anywhere from the softness of his hair to the hardness of his heart to the adorable way he sneezes. Enjolras, for the first time since leaving the rest of his friends on campus, feels very loved.

However, he still isn’t used to all the physical affection. He isn’t sure he ever will be, and therefore actually initiating kisses and touches is left to Grantaire. Enjolras would love to give Grantaire physical affection, but whenever he’s given the opportunity, he finds himself too shy. It’s beginning to pain him. He wants Grantaire, and he wants far more than just big kisses.

He’s tried giving hints- touches that linger too long on his chest or his bicep, lips on his neck, breath hot against his ears- but nothing seems to work. Enjolras is reminded of when they first starting talking, and Grantaire only texted him if Enjolras texted first. Maybe the rest of their relationship just hasn’t caught up yet.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire says in a cautious tone that Enjolras has begun to recognize, drawing him from his worries. He looks up from where he’s rested his head on Grantaire’s chest, watching him play one of the Fallout games. (He isn’t sure which one, but it’s not the one that has their city in it. Grantaire already showed him that one, and then a youtube video where people break it. Enjolras knows absolutely nothing about video games.) Grantaire’s hand is resting on Enjolras’ forearm. The game is paused.

“Yeah?”

“Want to-”

“Yes.”

Grantaire laughs, taking his free hand off his keyboard to touch Enjolras’ face. It’s big and gentle, and now, familiar. Enjolras closes his eyes, and waits for the light brush of lips. It doesn’t come.

“You’re very enthusiastic.” Grantaire muses. Enjolras blinks and reddens. Grantaire is right, of course. His lips are puckered and open and he has made himself small in Grantaire’s arms. Guilty.

He whines and hides his face against Grantaire’s hand.

“Aw, no, I’m sorry.” Grantaire says, sounding not sorry at all. “I just really like it, that’s all.”

Enjolras smiles, looking back up.

“It?” He murmurs, staring with big eyes. He watches Grantaire’s expression change and, in a surge of confidence, he kisses his fingers. Grantaire looks just as blissful as Enjolras feels, and Enjolras imagines for a moment that he’s taken his breath away. “Me?”

Grantaire swallows, and smiles a little bit. “It, you.” He says. Enjolras can feel his breath. “Tomato, tomato.”

Enjolras means to say that he likes him too, he really does, but he’s so close and so warm and so, so big that he just can’t take it anymore and instead says:

“I want you so bad.”

Grantaire blinks.

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes. Sorry, I-” Grantaire interrupts him before he can panic.

“No, no, we’re on the same page here, Jesus, but really?” Enjolras can’t believe how shocked he sounds. “Me?”

Enjolras laughs at him. “Yes, you!” He exclaims. “Of course you! I’m here in bed with you aren’t I?” Grantaire bites his lip, still unconvinced.

“R, I’m very, very attracted to you.” Says Enjolras, trying to sound as genuine as possible. It gets through, apparently, because Grantaire giggles, which is absolutely adorable coming from under his beard.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Enjolras laughs too, nervous and giddy, but far more sure of himself. “I want to have sex with you.”

Grantaire grins. “Right now?”

“Preferably.”

Grantaire kisses him, gently at first, as Enjolras has gotten used to, then more hungrily. Enjolras opens up for him, body ever pliant. When he wraps his arms around Grantaire’s neck, Grantaire pulls back.

“I want you.” Enjolras says, for the third time in ten minutes. Grantaire laughs at him again.

“I know.” He says. “I just need to grab a condom, okay?”

“Right. Of course.” Enjolras lets him go, a little embarrassed. As he watches Grantaire get up from the warm spot he left under the blankets, he smiles again. “You brought condoms?”

Grantaire cheekily turns back to him, proudly holding up a box of magnums. “You never know when your dreams might come true, Enjolras.”

Enjolras giggles, sitting up. He isn’t sure what to say to that, so instead he just blushes at his knees. He understands the feeling, though. He, too, feels like he’s in a dream.

Grantaire comes to sit beside him, motioning with his free hand for Enjolras to sit in his lap. He complies, curious and excited. Grantaire smiles at him, meeting his eye. He looks very kind.

“Okay. First, though.” He begins, and Enjolras almost wants to roll his eyes, but he’s so genuinely in need of knowledge that he just listens. “What do you like? What can I do to make this as-… as fucking gnarly for you as possible?”

Enjolras laughs, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders. “Oh my God.”

“Really though.” Grantaire grins, holding Enjolras with his free arm. “Tell me all about it. I want this to be awesome.” Enjolras, still embarrassed, drops his head onto Grantaire’s shoulder.

“I dunno. I’ve never done.. Sex stuff.”

“That’s ok.” Grantaire says genuinely. “That’s why I asked.” He places the box of condoms on Enjolras’ lap and uses his now free hand to pet his hair. Enjolras can tell that Grantaire is trying his best to be accommodating and lets that calm him, closing his eyes. “We don’t have to do anything penetrative if you don’t think you’re ready.”

“Let’s start slow.” Enjolras decides, even though he’s pretty sure he’s ready. “See where it goes.” He runs his fingers nonchalantly over Grantaire’s neck, and can feel his breathing against him and admits: “I’m actually, like, all set with that, though. I have a significant amount of experience on my own.”

“Oh!” Grantaire says, sounding immensely pleased. Enjolras presses his face into his neck, both in an effort to hide his flush and kiss the skin there. Grantaire hums, fingers waxing and waning in his hair. “Well, that’s good. How big are you used to?”

“Um.” Enjolras starts to giggle again, moving his hands under the collar of Grantaire’s shirt. “My dildo is pretty big? Six or seven inches long I think.” He kisses his pulse and adds: “And I’m used to that.”

“Ok.” Grantaire says, a little strained. Enjolras smiles against his skin. “I’m kind of…” He pauses, searching for the words. Enjolras holds his breath. “A lot bigger than that. Is that ok?”

Enjolras grins. “That’s fantastic.”

“I hoped you’d say that. One more thing.”

“Mm?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire tugs Enjolras’s head back by his hair to meet his eye. Enjolras gasps at the sudden motion, looking back at him. His eyes are dark, and Enjolras’ heart flip-flops. “I’m mad dominant. I don’t like to be on the bottom, and I like to be the one in control. Judging by the look on your face—” Enjolras swallows. “—that shouldn’t be a problem for us, but if you’re ever uncomfortable in any way, you are totally one hundred percent allowed to say no or safe word or even just ‘fuck off, R.’ That includes any dysphoria stuff, too. Okay?”

Enjolras, feeling a lovely combination of reassured and turned on, nods. There is still no give on his hair, and he whimpers. “Okay. Yes. Consented, thank you. Please, R, just—”

“What’s the safe word, baby?”  

Enjolras blinks, taking a moment. “Library.” Grantaire chuckles.

“Why?” He asks.

“It’s where we met.” Grantaire watches him speak, looking again impossibly fond, and there is a little, pregnant silence before he kisses him, hard.

It’s reminiscent of their very first kiss, angry and deep. Grantaire kisses with a purpose, so passionate that it’s almost violent. Enjolras lets himself get lost in the taste of him, opening up for his tongue, which Grantaire readily provides. His kiss is powerful, and so is his grip on Enjolras’ body. Enjolras is quickly a mess.

Grantaire, not breaking their connection, lowers Enjolras onto his back, hovering over him. Enjolras tightens his grip around Grantaire’s shoulders, while Grantaire’s hands work their way back under his shirt. Enjolras whimpers.

“Can I?” He murmurs against Enjolras’ cheek, breath hot. Enjolras, had he been in the right mind for it, would have probably been impressed that Grantaire has taken his chest into consideration, but he is far from the right mind, and just says:

“Please-”

So Grantaire does, making quick work of Enjolras’ shirt. He kisses him again, and Enjolras squirms below him. His hands are heavy, and Enjolras is all too aware of their trail up to his breasts. They seem steady enough, but just to make sure Grantaire knows how much he’s enjoying himself, he is especially loud against his lips.

Grantaire parts them to breathe, ragged, then moves to kiss Enjolras’ neck, hands cupping his breasts. Enjolras stretches, giving him as much access as possible. He doesn’t even feel the tickle of Grantaire’s beard because it pales in comparison to the sting of his teeth.

“Ah! Ah!”

Grantaire flicks and pulls at his nipples, teasing him, and if Enjolras was a mess before he’s certainly a disaster now. He scrapes his hands under Grantaire’s shirt, painting stripes with his nails in an effort to make him feel as good as he does. Grantaire slots his knee between Enjolras’ legs, and Enjolras can’t help himself but grind against it. His pajama pants have never felt so heavy. He’s lost.

“R, for God’s sake!” He exclaims, trying to regain some composure. Grantaire just laughs at him, and even that has Enjolras reeling.

“What, baby?” He teases, voice somehow deeper than Enjolras has ever heard it. He drops his knee just slightly and Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s cock in his sweatpants press against his thigh. “You okay?”

Enjolras whines again. “Please, R, I want you so bad.” He whispers, looking up at him with big eyes as he rolls his hips in a desperate effort to achieve some friction. Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ face, eliciting a gasp.

“Beg.”

When Enjolras opens his mouth to do exactly that, Grantaire slaps him. Not to hard, but enough to make a noise. Enjolras chokes out a sob and begs anyway.

“Fuck me, fuck me, please, R, anything-“

Grantaire laughs at him again, cruel, and then his hand is finally, finally, between his legs. He touches a whimpering, squirming Enjolras through his pants for just a moment before pulling them down. His eyes are closed, but Enjolras can imagine Grantaire’s delight at the sight of his lace-

“I like your panties, Enjolras.” Grantaire says, voice commanding attention, and Enjolras shudders.

“Thank you.” He breathes.

Grantaire’s fingers brush against the lace, then work their way to gently explore, running over him. Enjolras’ breath shakes.

“You’re so wet, baby boy.” Grantaire says.

“Nn-.” Enjolras agrees. Grantaire chuckles again and gently tugs the panties off. He pulls them off, and Enjolras immediately spreads his legs. He peeks his eyes open just in time to see Grantaire press his lips to his clit.

“Oh.” He feels Grantaire smile against him, then lick up and down between his folds. Enjolras’ hands rush to his hair, gripping hard, and Grantaire groans against him. “Oh, oh my god-!”

Grantaire is nodding, shamelessly dragging his face through Enjolras’ pussy. Enjolras has never felt anything like this, and when he finally gets over the initial shock, Grantaire is already moving too fast. His hands are on Enjolras’ ass, keeping him in place, and he is fucking Enjolras with his tongue.

Enjolras’ breath is heavy and ragged, and from his throat comes the occasional louder noise, whimpers and moans and strings of curses. He didn’t expect to be caught off guard, but this is so new and so, so good. Distantly, he feels himself fearing he might come too early, but that version of himself is not the same self with Grantaire between his legs. That Enjolras belongs to him.

“R, oh my God—“ He exclaims again. His hands are fisted in Grantaire’s hair, tugging hard, and Grantaire follows the cue, dragging his tongue up to Enjolras’ clit. Enjolras cries out again, but chokes off as Grantaire latches onto him.

He sucks Enjolras’ clit without holding back, and Enjolras squirms and writhes beneath him. His back arches. His hips shake. It’s too much.

Enjolras comes with a shout, body spasming up off his bed as he wets Grantaire’s face. His orgasm is no more violent than usual, but now it’s fueled by the knowledge that finally, finally, it was given to him by Grantaire. He has been granted the world, toes curling, mouth agape.

Enjolras floats. Grantaire laughs.

“That was quick.” He teases, but his voice is gravelly, and even Enjolras, oblivious as he is and from his seat above the world, can tell he’s still hungry. The thought both brings him back to reality and dizzies him.

“You’re…” Enjolras pauses, unsure if he’s allowed to speak yet. Grantaire rests his head on his belly, rising and falling with hurried breath. He continues cautiously.  “…really good at that.”

Grantaire laughs again. “Thanks.”

He moves, then, steadying himself on the mattress so that he can crawl over Enjolras. He hovers, then kisses him, quick. His breath slows as though by force.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” He asks, voice as close to normal as Enjolras reckons he can get it, and Enjolras just about explodes. He knows, deep down, that consent is the bare minimum, but he is so, so gone for him that even the bare minimum is the best of his life.

And he supposes that those are feelings he ought to finally unpack, but Grantaire is waiting for an answer, brown eyes boring into his as if he’s trying to read his mind, and Enjolras decides that that’s a conflict for tomorrow.

“Yes.” He says, making sure that his voice is as steady as he can make it. “Very, very sure.”

Grantaire grins and dives back down to kiss him.

___

The morning comes too soon, and with it, the end of the weekend. The sky is gray and moody, clouds rolling in past the gray-green trees, and Enjolras wakes to a pleasantly sore body and an unpleasantly empty bed. He is cold and naked and immediately panics. Did he do something wrong? Did Grantaire regret sleeping with him? Was he actually a horrible lay, so horrible that Grantaire took the first bus back to the city, never to been seen or heard from again?

His breath is unsteady, and he curls in on himself under his sheet and blanket. It is too early for him to notice that he’s having an episode, he’s still half asleep, but not too early for him to notice the feeling of something crinkle under his cheek. He blinks, taking a few seconds to try in vain to calm himself, then shakily pulls a piece of paper out from his pillow. It reads: “come down to the kitchen when you wake up :3c”

Enjolras breathes again, letting his heart slow. Grantaire is still here, and from the looks of it, made him breakfast. He didn’t have to do that. Enjolras is positive he, personally, would have preferred morning cuddles.

He drags himself out of bed anyway, putting on a pair of clean boxers and Grantaire’s discarded shirt.

When he makes it to the kitchen, yawning, squinting and admittedly limping a little, he smells breakfast, just as he suspected. He brought his glasses instead of his contacts, and he takes in the sight of several platters of breakfast food: eggs cooked sunny side up, different colors of toast, pancakes, bacon, juice, and (Thank God.) coffee; and Grantaire, far too awake for however early this is, chatting with the morning kitchen girls. They seem to be charmed by him, laughing and smiling, but when Grantaire turns around to greet him, he looks just as tired as Enjolras feels.

“Good morning, beautiful!” He says, cheerful as always, and Enjolras can’t help but smile.

“Coffee.” He croaks, stepping into the room, and one of the girls hands him a cup that must have been waiting for him. He takes a sip, focusing on the feeling of it’s warmth spreading across his body. He sees Grantaire smiling in his peripheral, but even in the corner of his eye, Enjolras can tell that it’s forced. His stomach reels. He lifts his head from his coffee.

“What’s all this?” He asks in a clearer voice, looking up at Grantaire. He smells of cologne, and he’s dressed up, Enjolras notices, in nicer clothes than usual. Enjolras considers that he’s been dressing nicer while he’s been here, but today’s outfit is even more sharp than the last two. Grantaire shrugs, which is almost out of place in such a snappy button down.

“Thought I might make our last morning count.” He says, and his voice is sadder than Enjolras has ever heard it. The kitchen girls sort of shuffle their way out of earshot as discreetly as they can manage, and Enjolras is grateful. He puts his coffee down on the counter and goes to Grantaire to embrace him. Grantaire envelops him in a hug and squeezes him tight. Enjolras feels him shake.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He says, but he actually understands. It’s the same reason he was scared to wake up alone; Grantaire doesn’t want him to leave. And perhaps Enjolras has known Grantaire long enough and well enough to understand that that fear is both exactly the same and impossibly different than his.

Grantaire is silent.

Enjolras, appropriately, is not.

“I really, really like you.” He tells him, nestled into his arms. “I liked you yesterday, I liked you last night, I like you this morning, and I’ll like you tomorrow, unless, I don’t know, you’re secretly a transphobe.”

Grantaire laughs a little, quietly, but he gives Enjolras a little squeeze.

“I’m not a transphobe, I don’t think.” He tells him, very clearly averting the subject. “But I do some pretty dumb shit someti—“

“Do you want to be boyfriends?” Enjolras interrupts, not giving himself the chance to overthink it. Maybe he ought to be panicking again, but he definitely isn’t, and the words came out so sure and steady that he doesn’t even question them. This is what he wants. This is what he’s wanted all along.

Grantaire pulls back, smiling too big for his face. His eyes are wet, but he nods with more fervor than Enjolras has ever seen in him. Once again, the word ‘love’ flits like a butterfly through Enjolras’ mind, but this time, he lets it.

They spend the next few hours in quiet, Grantaire getting increasingly sullen as the clock ticks by. They hold hands. Grantaire cries again when the bus comes, hugging Enjolras so hard that he swears he hears something crack in his back.

After the bus has disappeared down the road, lost behind big, white houses and shiny new cars, after the mid-afternoon sun has warmed Enjolras to his core, after the wifi at the bus station has decided to be more than slightly functional and Enjolras has shed tears into a too-big stolen shirt, after Grantaire is officially gone, Enjolras changes his relationship status on Facebook.

__

 

> One of the most important aspects of BPD is obsession. This can refer to anything, but usually it refers to a person or people, hence the rocky relationships. The Borderline brain will pick a Favorite Person, in the BPD community referred to by “FP,” and obsess over that person. This process is called “imprinting.” An FP is usually a loved one: a romantic partner, a best friend, a family member, etc, but in theory it could really be anyone. I have even heard stories about people who hate their Favorite Person.
> 
> When someone with BPD has a FP, anyone else in their life becomes second best. My FP is the person I love and cherish the most and I will devote all my time and energy to cultivating a relationship with this person. Borderlines often will go out of their way to make their Favorite Person happy, even sacrificing their own self care, because this obsession is perceived in most cases to be love. That doesn’t mean they don’t love their FP, because the vast majority of times, they definitely do, but the love we experience is far different than the love a neurotypical person feels.
> 
> People with BPD often do not understand the concept of a Favorite Person, and therefore do not understand that the way that we love them may be toxic to them. Since we look to our FPs for love, attention, and validation, we can often find ourselves asking too much of them. We are also known to manipulate situations to our liking more than neurotypical people, usually to get the attention and love we need from our Favorite People. However, it is far from impossible to have a good and wholesome relationship, so long as both parties are willing to learn and evolve together. Borderlines are people who love hard, but not necessarily wrong.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap for today guys! Thanks again for being patient and sticking with me. You've been rewarded with gratuitous cunnilingus... and can definitely expect an update before Thanksgiving... Christmas? New Year's, definitely.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think, either in the comments section here, or on tumblr or twitter @jehancourf. 
> 
> PS: Not a lot of Courf + Jehan in this one, but don't worry ;) There's ;) A lot ;) of them ;) in the future ;)

**Author's Note:**

> For questions, character designs, or if you just want to chat, I'm [ here ](http://www.twitter.com/erisolsies) on twitter and [ here ](http://www.nyeh.co.vu) on tumblr. 
> 
> Check out [ this helpful website ](http://borderlinelife.tripod.com) for more information about BPD. See you soon for a second and maybe third part?? *eyes emoji*


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